


Son of Twilight

by Dolias



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Death, Fall of Gondolin, Friendship/Love, Gondolin, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Angst, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-10-19 06:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 77,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20652782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolias/pseuds/Dolias
Summary: Of Maeglin and the few who loved him, from his iconoclastic adolescence to his isolated, self-destructive adulthood, as he tries to escape his father's legacy and his own destiny. Within him, the forces of good and evil war, and the smallest thing might tip the balance toward one or the other.





	1. Glîn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is the first fanfic I wrote for the Silmarillion universe, first published on fanfiction.net. I'm working on migrating the content over to this platform gradually, starting with the first few chapters of both of my stories. If you're impatient want to read the rest, they're over here at:
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5420407/Dolias
> 
> Otherwise, I should have everything over here in the next few weeks. Comments are reviews are always welcome! Cheers, Dolias.

_Twilight falls on the open ocean. The swells churn like beasts galloping along the plain of water. Glorfindel awakens on his narrow cot. He lies supine, eyes blinking sleepily as they search the ceiling by starlight. _

  
_He had been dreaming just now. Flames again. All around, trapping him, engulfing him, and that fire had a face, and the face was fear itself. There had been crying. Crumbling stone. Death. _

  
_Yet within that dream there had been another dream, a good dream… a waterfall in the moonlight. A secret place, a place of beauty and freedom._  
_ He lets the brewing storm rock him.. There is something soothing about the storm now, after all the years at sea. He knows how to reef the mainsail, lash the wheel leeward and sail into the wind. And thereafter the high winds, once the most dreaded of fears of the open water, carry you faithfully into the dawn. _  
_ Glorfindel rises from his cot, which creaks softly. He picks up his folded linen shirt, buries his face deep into the fabric and inhales. Clean enough. He pulls it over his head, steps into his breeches, and shrugs on a heavy coat. _

  
_He reaches back to the nape of his neck to gather his blond hair into its familiar braid, but where once there were elegant locks, he finds only skin. Five years ago, it had become entangled somehow in the ropes and hooks. The wind probably would have beheaded him if his sharp-witted shipmate, Curundil, had not cut off the entire tangled gold mess right then with his fishing knife. The sensation of being without it was still unfamiliar._

  
_ He walks onto the deck, still massaging his closely shorn scalp, as the conflagration of his dreams slowly fades in his mind. His shipmates have started work already, coiling and uncoiling rope, furling sail. _

  
_“Here!” a young mortal man calls, and turning sharply to the noise, Glorfindel is just quick enough to catch the rope tossed to him. _

  
_The swells are even larger now, some of them rising up to the level of the deck. The ship has started to pitch. They work hard and quickly, but are steady and sure in their movements. Curundil catches Glorfindel’s eye._

  
_ “i Elin glîn,” he remarks. Glorfindel responds with a glance to the heavens. Indeed, the stars are unusually bright tonight, even as the dark clouds roll over them. Their thin, white streaks of light trickle through the fog, mystical and lovely. _

  
_Glîn._

  
_ The work done, the storm growing, Glorfindel and the crew retreat once more to their quarters. The ship is not tossing now, but gently listing. They fall asleep against the roar of the sea, all except for Glorfindel, who opens his door to catch a final glance at the stars. _

  
_How they do gleam in that infinite darkness. He squints at them, trying to conjure back that pleasant, but long-forgotten scene in his past, and they gaze back, In them Glorfindel sees the one he seeks, the reason he turned his back on the shores of the Undying Lands to follow the water._  
_“By the light of Elentári,” he whispers across the now-empty deck, “I shall find you yet.”_


	2. The Boy and the Forge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year since his mother's death, a guarded and misunderstood youth finds it challenging to adjust to life in Gondolin.

It was well into autumn now. Golden leaves rained from the _ mallorn _ trees, softly blanketing the stone paths. A chill had crept into the air.

“So what you’re telling me, Chancellor,” said the black-haired youth, “Is that I failed my oral exams because I was a complete cock to everyone.”

“Those were not the words I used, Maeglin,” said the chancellor. Though his face was perfectly calm, a vein pulsated in his temple. “What I said was: although you satisfactorily fulfilled requisite knowledge for your examinations, your educators informed me they would not give you a passing mark, in the light of your lacking… civility toward them.”

“Ah,” said Maeglin, “And… did they give specifics?”

The chancellor sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Readily. They noted you often took leave of your lessons prematurely to spend time in the smithy, for instance. That you prefer solitude to befriending your peers. And your literature tutor mentioned in particular that you, ah, _ ‘chortled irreverently’ _ when the protagonist fell to his death in the epic poem he had been reciting.”

The chancellor looked over the young elf sitting in the chair across from him in his study, fiddling with his sleeve. He was serious-looking for his age, with black hair cut short at the chin and brows. His features were made up of angles, and his lips were curiously red upon his pale face.

“Maeglin,” said the chancellor again, more gently this time. 

Maeglin glanced up sharply, and said nothing.

“Believe it or not, I did not call you here to berate you. In fact, it’s the opposite. Your educators and I want to know how we can help. We all want you to do well, child. Is there something we could do better? Is there something you would like to confide in me? I hope you feel comfortable confiding in me. I would like you to think of me as a friend.”

The look Maeglin now gave him was so withering it could have melted iron.

“You could tell my _ educators _,” he said, “To fuck right out of my private life.”

The chancellor’s face hardened.

“_That _was too far,” he said, “You think that because you are sister-son to the king, you can speak to me in that filthy manner without consequence? How dare you. I taught your mother, you know. A model student, simply exemplary. What do you think she would say if she knew her own son--”

He stopped short. Maeglin’s bottom lip was quivering.

“My child, I apologize-- there was no need for my outburst--”

“It’s not your fault,” said Maeglin, burying the lower half of his face his hands, “It’s just that-- you know-- you’ve just reminded me, my mother-- she-- she died a year ago. On this very day.”

The chancellor felt his chest ache with pity for the young one, and shame for himself. He knelt down next to the Maeglin’s chair and laid a hand on his shaking shoulder.

“How very difficult this must be for you,” he said empathetically, “I can’t even imagine.”

“Y-yes,” stammered Maeglin, “She died saving my life, you know. My father tried to-- to kill me with a javelin, and she-- she-- well, you’ve probably heard the rest.”

The chancellor nodded. Of course he had heard. Everyone had heard.

It had indeed been one year, one lonely year to the day since King Turgon’s strong-headed sister, Aredhel, had appeared at the gates of the great stone city of Gondolin: the elf-fortress hidden in the Encircling Mountains, her brother’s city that she had once called home. She had vanished several decades before-- as it turned out, into the forests of misty Nan Elmoth, in the shadow of Doriath-- but at the time she had been believed dead by all. 

And now she had returned, with a raven-haired young stranger at her side. A stranger with darting, mistrustful eyes, who had turned out to be her son, Maeglin. He had been conceived, and born, and become a half-grown whelp of an elf all in the time she had been gone.

The story of what had happened after they were received had been witnessed with shock in the king’s court, repeated therein the next day to those absent, and recounted bawdily in pubs, at the market, between neighbors, and to their children: Aredhel’s husband, the dark elf Eöl of Nan Elmoth, and father to the child, had appeared not hours after his wife and son. He had been apprehended at the gates.

When his son, Maeglin, would not leave Gondolin with him, he had produced a poisoned javelin from beneath his cloak, swift as a viper, sent it flying toward him-- a weapon that Aredhel had intercepted with her own body. 

Aredhel had died horribly that night as Maeglin watched, wordless. The very next day Eöl had been thrown to his death over the battlements, cursing his child’s name. 

And that child, Maeglin, was all the king had left of his sister, with whom he had only just reunited after so many years apart.

The chancellor’s hand was still on Maeglin’s shoulder. He would keep it there as long as necessary. What this child needed was for someone to listen to him. Someone to understand. 

“I’m here for you,” he said, “Whatever you need… whatever I can do…”

“I’m sorry for cursing earlier,” sniffed Maeglin.

“It’s all right, quite all right. Why don’t you take a few minutes and simply return to your lore seminar? I think we’ve done quite enough here for the day. I’ll speak with your other tutors and see if they can be at all flexible with your marks for the term.”

“Really?” said Maeglin, uncovering his face at once. “Thank you, Chancellor. That is most generous. I’ll just be on my way.”

The chancellor frowned. Maeglin’s sniffling had ceased a little too abruptly. A completely fresh wave of fury reddened his cheeks as he saw how young Maeglin had preyed upon his kindness.

“You’re going to have to face the darkness inside you one day,” he cried angrily at Maeglin’s retreating back.

“When I do,” called Maeglin over his shoulder, “I’ll be sure to ‘_ confide in you _’ about it.”

He slammed his palm against the marble wall of the Academy as he recalled the look of pity on the chancellor’s face. Sanctimonious asshole.

Ø

Maeglin did as he was instructed and returned to his lore seminar after leaving the Academy. He walked up the hill to join the circle of his peers, sitting in the garden as an aged-appearing elf read in monotone from an ancient tome. Fair, braided heads turned to look at him as he approached and took the empty seat. 

Maeglin differed noticeably from the rest, a crow amidst a flock of doves. He wore the same embroidered students’ smock as his fellows, but his was dirty and blackened at the sleeves from the hours he liked to spend at the smithy. He seemed always wary of something no one else could see, seemed ever to be planning his words and actions with great care. Most prominently, while the other young elves held in their eyes a look of wisdom and eagerness, Maeglin’s were full of fire, his brows always furrowed, his lips always pursed. 

The others nodded along as the dry voice traced out a particularly convoluted, boring line of succession. His voice seemed to fade in and out of the crisp wind as each sentence trailed off without expression. 

In the distance, the peaked white towers of the palace loomed against a gray sky.

The lore-master was recounting the creation of Arda today. Maeglin’s hands fidgeted, itching for something to do.

“In the beginning was only Ilúvatar...” said the the lore-master, “The Father of us all, whom it pleased to make music, and the music was divine...”

“From the rhythm of the drums sprang the earth and mountains, from the harmony, the night and day. And from the melody itself, my children, came life: the Lords and Ladies of the Valar, who wove songs of their own...”

Maeglin’s mind began to wander. His gaze drifted beyond the gardens, along the gleaming turrets of the city, adorned with cerulean banners contorting majestically as the wind took them. How divinely lovely Gondolin was-- almost vulgarly so. 

Nan Elmoth, the forest of his birth, had crawled with spiders and dark things. He remembered now anemic light that had filtered through the black treetops and the mist, how cold it had always been. But in that cold place lay the familiar sound of his mother putting him to bed with tales of her beautiful home. 

How he had burned with longing to see Gondolin then. How he had spent all of his childish prayers begging to live in Gondolin one day.

_ I miss you, Mama. I swear, if I shut them all out, I can almost hear your voice, telling me all about the turrets and banners you wished I could see. Well, I can see them now. I wanted you to know that. _

The lore-master tutored on, his voice a thin drone.

“From Ulmo came the song of the seas; from the great Oromë, the deer and wolves. From Elentári the stars, and from Yavanna the trees and flowers. But it was from Ilúvatar himself, dear children, that the Elves, and Men too, came to be. We are made of the very music of Ilúvatar, The One, himself; we are the image of what He himself considers good, and beautiful...”

All the young elves nodded rapturously. They had been born here in Gondolin, and had not seen the wars, the creatures of Morgoth, the tears innumerable of their forbears. In Gondolin was eternal Spring, and to them, the Valar seemed good. Maeglin alone looked down darkly, and did not smile. 

“Speak your mind, Maeglin, son of Aredhel,” said the lore-master gently, “What do you make of the creation of our world, of our kind? Does it not please your ears to hear?”

Maeglin took his bottom lip in his teeth and said nothing. 

“Young Maeglin, it would gladden me to hear you speak-- for I wish for all to hear of the song of Ilúvatar, and rejoice.”

At this, Maeglin furrowed his brow.

“And what of Morgoth, lore-master? If Ilúvatar was wholly good, how could He create the one who made the dark places of the earth, the orcs and Balrogs and spiders? Why did He bring suffering to this world?”

The lore-master stroked his chin, pondering. “You blaspheme, young Maeglin. It was not Ilúvatar’s intention, nor could he foresee that Morgoth’s greed and ambition would turn him wicked, and bring grief and destruction to his creation...”

_ So he is fallible then _ , _ the great Ilúvatar, _ thought Maeglin with triumph, _ He is no more than a craftsman who blundered at the forge, and out came the warped confusion of the place we call Arda... _

But aloud he said, “I understand, lore-master. Forgive my transgression, I forgot myself.”

_ ...the Valar be damned. _

The the lore-master nodded, satisfied. Young elves were often full of doubts and skepticism, as Maeglin was, but as they learned more of the world, they almost always became more faithful-- after all, faith alone in the world was constant, good, and true.

They adjourned the lesson for lunch, and as the other pupils spoke happily over their grains and fruits, Maeglin quietly wandered away. 

Past the Academy he walked, and the stables, and the King’s Fountain. Great marble statues of the Valar towered above the pool upon their plinths, looking down at young Maeglin in disapproval today as he took leave of his lessons. But Maeglin paid them no mind. Never had he any particular love for them, old Ilúvatar, Oromë, Yavanna, Ulmo, Eléntari, Nienna, and all the rest. So little did these so-called gods care for their children, the elves and men of Arda, that they may as well have been made of stone, as were their enormous figures within the fountain.

_ Sorry, Mama. I know you prayed every night to them. But I haven’t quite forgiven them, for taking you away. It’s only been a year, after all _. 

He arrived at the steps of the royal smithy. He came so often now that the smiths had given him a replica of its heavy silver key, which he now drew from his silk girdle. He twisted it in the bolt and pushed open the door. 

To his ears came the sound of hammers and bellows. Showers of orange sparks flew through the huge, dim space. 

“Remember your mask, Maeglin,” said the head-smith, not looking up from the molten mass he shaped with his tongs. 

Maeglin took a heavy mask from the wall and pulled it over his face, keeping the fumes from his lungs. He leaned over the railing and watched them work. In peacetime, the need for swords, armor, and arrow-points was small. 

The smithy made hunting-knives for sport now, and silver spoons and carafes, ornate collars and brooches for the women, handsome damasked buckles for the men. The horses needed shoes and tack. The children liked metal figurines and toys. And everyone liked the brightly colored stones, worthless and precious alike, for their cloaks and necklaces and wedding headdresses. They glittered in heaps by firelight at the forge, rubies and topaz and emerald; opal from rock and even some river pearls. 

Maeglin only felt truly at peace in the noise and heat of the royal smithy, watching molten, deadly metal take beautiful form, and the ugly rocks of the mountain become exquisite jewels.

“You should be at your lessons, boy,” said the head smith. His face was hidden by his own mask, but he was a good-looking elf with a somewhat weathered face, who wore his rust-colored hair drawn back with a leather tie.

“I’ve heard them all already,” said Maeglin, trying not to sound insolent. 

The smith finished up the silver cup he had made, dousing it in water. A geyser-like jet of steam exploded from the water’s surface. He took off his mask, and wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a trail of soot.

“Well, you ought to be learning,” he said to the young elf, “Or at least make yourself useful. Come here, hold these pieces together while I weld them.”

To his surprise, a delighted smile lit up Maeglin’s dark features, and he rushed to the forge.

“Wait, boy-- put on some gloves first-- use the tongs-”

Maeglin proved to be an eager and sharp assistant, and they spent the next hours smelting and setting. He fetched water without complaint along with the apprentice-boys, and relit the bellows when they grew dim, soiling his fine silk clothes. 

Not usually one to dole out praise, the head smith at the end of the day said to Maeglin, in spite of himself, “You’ll do well here. But I won’t have you making a truant out of yourself to come. Return every day next week after your lessons, and I will have more to teach you. But if you’ve been shirking them, I’ll know.”

“Yes, Lord Thénarion,” said Maeglin eagerly, “I give you my word.”

Thénarion beamed at him.

“Good man,” he said, and Maeglin felt a surge of pride, of acceptance, “I think we could aim to have you make a horseshoe at first.”

“It would be an honor, Lord Thénarion,” said Maeglin, “But my father, who was a smith himself, has taught me some already. Would it be too much, to ask you show me to make a helm?”

ø

Maeglin returned the next day, and the day after. Before Thénarion allowed Maeglin to touch the tools, he made the youth recite what he had learned that day at the Academy, which Maeglin did happily. Side-by-side, as promised, they forged a bronze helm together. It was a simple, imperfect thing, but a remarkably ambitious first attempt. 

Thénarion was alarmed by Maeglin’s ease with the forge and tools. The boy knew most of them already, and picked up new ones easily, as though born with the knowledge. He found himself wondering whether Maeglin might have rivaled the famous Fëanor’s precocity in metalwork. 

What is more, the head-smith found Maeglin exceptionally keen, courteous and hard-working, and not a bit the morose and feral brat described to him by the boy’s other tutors. Each day as dusk fell and the equipment was cleaned and secured, the other apprentices long gone, Maeglin could be seen still working at his own creations, his mask on, by the only fire left at the forge. 

It seemed as though he never wished to leave, and on occasion, the head-smith would bring with him some _ lembas _ bread or fruit, so he could put some in Maeglin before he himself departed to his hearth, his wife and two daughters.

ø

Each day, Maeglin would go home after dark when he could no longer stand without seeing stars. Before bed he would lift heavy weights in his bedroom so he would have the strength to swing the forge hammer. He came to his lessons more often, and when he did, the lore-master noted he had already read through the books the night before, and knew as much about the Exile of the Noldor as any of his peers. The chancellor rejoiced at the improvement of Maeglin’s participation in his own education, and supposed he himself must have gotten through to the child, after all. 

One year after coming to Gondolin, while the others raced their horses, hunted, and learned to dance, Maeglin alone seemed to shun the light of the day and the blinding beauty of the city. 

He could be found down in the smithy, alone except for the light of his flame and a secret smile behind his dark, protective mask.


	3. Idril Under the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idril, looking for her missing cat, receives some unexpected assistance.

Idril was Turgon’s only daughter, and he loved her more than all the world. 

She was a little older than Gondolin itself, and had been born nine years after the crossing of the Helcaraxë, a perilous journey in a bitter chapter in the history of Noldor elves.

Yet for all her years and sorrows, Idril remained as light of step as a fawn, and smiled often, her face as bright, lovely and youthful as it had been when she was seventeen. 

Her hair was white-blonde. She went barefoot in a light mantle, and was called, endearingly, Celebrindal, or silver-foot. Idril was fair, and kind, and wise, and was often seen amid a handful of her dearest female friends. But sometimes she liked nothing more than to go into the garden with a pen and rabbit-bound journal, and fill it with drawings and descriptions of the flowers, birds and insects she saw.

However, Idril was distraught today. Her cream-colored cat, Dolias, had leapt from the balcony this morning and streaked off into the city. Immediately, she had run after him, going barefoot as she always did, her rich green mantle and long silvery hair flying behind her. But poor Dolias had not been in the courtyard or garden or the King’s Fountain, or even at the stable, and she had searched for hours. 

ø

It was past noon now. Idril wandered down an unfamiliar set of steps near the smithy. She called out Dolias’s name, but to no avail. Perhaps she should turn back, and put out a notice for him in the market square.

“Careful!” a voice cried out suddenly. 

Idril stopped in her tracks, pricking her ears up like a startled doe.

“Who’s there?”

She kept still but cautiously turned her head to answer her own question. 

Maeglin, her first cousin, appeared at the top of the stone steps. His hair was long now, tied in a neat bundle running down his back.

“You shouldn’t come around here with no shoes on,” said Maeglin, “Look.”

Idril looked down. A sinister sliver of metal lay where she had been about to place her right foot. She stumbled back, holding her skirt above her ankles.

“Thanks,” she said, sheepish. She was not particularly close with her cousin, and like many others, found him somewhat unfriendly. 

What is more, there were nasty rumors floating about the palace, and even at the Great Market: that his eyes were on her; that he _ desired _ her. Rumors she felt were untrue, but would rather not lend any credence too. Therefore, she gave him as wide a berth as possible. She felt a bit of guilt now for her aloofness, as Maeglin had just prevented her from slicing her foot open.

“What are you doing here, anyway,” asked Maeglin, rudely, “Are you lost?”

“No,” said Idril. Her gratitude evaporated. How very male to suppose she was lost in the city her father built, where she had lived her entire life, and he for a touch longer than a year.

“I’m looking for my cat,” she explained, “He ran away this morning.”

“Oh!” said Maeglin. “Was he yellow? And blue-eyed, with a pewter collar?”

“He is! Have you seen him?” 

“I did-- he went that way.”

And Maeglin pointed in an oblique direction with one finger. Idril noticed his nails were clipped almost down to the cuticle, but neatly so.

She walked gingerly over to where Maeglin stood.

“I’m glad you caught a glimpse of him. I wonder where he went?”

Maeglin shrugged.

“Down into the tunnels, I would guess, if you haven’t found him yet. But I wouldn’t go down there if I were you. I’ve seen some fairly large rats about.” 

Idril folded her arms. 

“I can’t just leave him,” she said.

“It was just a cat,” he said, “I could find you another. They leave boxes of them, you know, in the market square.”

She saw it now, the famous callousness of his character. She had heard the tale of how he had watched, unflinching, as his own father was executed before his eyes, and now it seemed more plausible.

“That’s monstrous!” she cried, “Leaving a poor defenseless animal alone like that. To get… eaten by rats, or whatever else is down there! Excuse me, I’m going.”

Maeglin moved to block her path, and she stopped just short of colliding with him.

“If you must go, I had better come with you,” said her cousin, “And we’ll need to find you some shoes first.”

Immediately, Idril’s frown cleared into an honest, grateful smile. In the end, if people showed even one little flash of goodness, they were redeemed in her gentle heart.

“Thank you,” she said, “I knew you would help me after all, Maeglin.” 

ø

Back at the palace, they found a pair of sturdy wooden clogs for Idril. These belonged to one of the maids, and were far coarser and uglier than anything she had worn in her entire life, but they would protect her feet.

Down they went towards the tunnels together, drawing curious looks from those out and about that autumn day. To what the bystanders thought of the two cousins, one so dark and the other glowing fair, walking together for the first time, Idril cared not.

Maeglin led her by a winding path to an unassuming door. They clambered through. Beyond, a stone ramp spiraled down into darkness, lit on either side by flickering sconces. 

“What is this place?” whispered Idril, her voice echoing. In spite of herself, she truly had not seen this part of the city in all her years here.

“The tunnels,” said Maeglin again, “This is how things get around Gondolin, mostly. Anything you can imagine: metal, wool, parcels, food. Anything that needs to go in or out of town.”

Though she was naturally brave, Idril could not help but keep her guard raised in the dark passage, and involuntarily stayed close by Maeglin’s side. The tunnels seemed to go on for miles, gradually growing deeper as they went.

Idril could feel the weight of the earth above, the darkness drawing close. Occasionally she started at some mysterious noise, but she was sure it was only some porter in an adjacent tunnel, or else some harmless stray animal. There were many forks along the way, but Maeglin always seemed to know which one to take, and she had no choice but to trust him. 

The coarse shoes chafed at her ankles. Sometimes the ceiling would rumble faintly as some horse or cart went by above them. She wondered which part of Gondolin they now walked under, and whether anyone was aware of the vast underbelly of the city they now explored, the city under the city.

“My mother used to say the spirit of Hiraeth the Lost wanders tunnels like this,” said Maeglin, “If you keep quiet, you can hear her singing.”

She turned toward him, surprised he had been the one to break the silence.

“Hiraeth the Lost? I don’t remember that story.”

“Don’t you? She used to sing it to me.”

He cleared his throat murmured the first bars of the song, in his soft but surprisingly clear tenor:

_ Fair Hiraeth tired of gowns and rings, _

_ Of princes kissing her gloved hands, _

_ She fled the palace of the king, _

_ And wandered into Midnight’s lands… _

He blushed at the sound of his own echoing voice.

“Well, you know. It’s simple. A children’s song.”

“I do remember!” said Idril. Her eyes widened and shone gold in the torchlight. She sang the verse that occurred to her:

_ The lords astride their charging steeds, _

_ Braved the forest two by two. _

_ All they found among the weeds, _

_ Were, upside down, her pearly shoes... _

She trailed off.

“Such a sad story, for a children’s tale,” she said, “Poor Hiraeth. And the wretched king who lost her. To send his entire army into the forest, and never learn of her fate but to find that lonely pair of shoes.”

The shadows on Maeglin’s face made it look almost mischievous.

“Oh, but my mother said the story had a second part,” he said, “She says the Midnight Prince, the Lord of Darkness, reached out of the ground and took Hiraeth’s hands, and pulled her headfirst into his kingdom below the ground. That’s why her shoes were upside down.”

Idril shuddered and involuntarily moved to be even closer to him.

“You’re joking,” she said, suddenly aware of how dark it was.

“I’m not. But there’s no need to be scared, she would tell me. For Hiraeth became the Lady of Darkness in the inverted kingdom, and though she missed the light of our world and the king she left behind, she learned to be happy there. But perhaps my mother made that up, so the story wouldn’t be so sad.”

He glanced over and noticed she was smiling to herself.

“What are you thinking of?” he wondered aloud.

“Nothing,” said Idril, “Only about the way you said ‘mother’. It sounded so lovely, with your accent.”

“I don’t have an accent,” said Maeglin irritably, “This is how you’re meant to speak Sindarin. _ You _ have an accent.”

Idril’s bright laughter rang from the stone walls.

“But everyone in Gondolin talks like this!”

“There is a world outside Gondolin, you know,” Maeglin reminded her.

“I know,” said Idril. Her voice was serious again, “I was born in Valinor. We crossed the Helcaraxë when I was nine. That’s when I lost my Mama.”

She paused, waiting for the customary condolences. Instead, Maeglin cocked his head like a robin.

“What was your mother like?” he asked.

“Her name was Elenwë,” said Idril, “She was Vanyarin, and very beautiful. She always liked to go barefoot, just like me. I miss her very much sometimes, but I know I’ll see her again someday, and she’ll be waiting when Papa and I sail back to Valinor.”

“My mother was beautiful too,” said Maeglin, “I suppose you must have met her while she lived here in Gondolin. I think you look like her, quite a bit.”

Idril blushed, realizing he had just called her beautiful.

“Tell me about your home,” she said, shaking off his compliment.

“What, Nan Elmoth? Well. First of all, we eat cats there.”

“You’re serious!”

“No, that time I was joking...”

Idril burst out laughing. How little indeed she knew of her cousin.

Just then, the sound of rushing water reached their ears. As they turned the corner, the passage widened to the size of the great ballroom back at the palace. 

Before them flowed a huge, coursing aqueduct, the very one that must run from the mountains to feed the fountains, baths, and wells of the Gondolin. Tributaries split off of the main waterway in straight lines.

“_ Ai, Elentári _,” breathed Idril.

They followed the aqueduct for a little while, and then Idril heard it: a high yowling noise, the unmistakable sound of a cat in distress.

“Dolias!”

She ran toward the cat’s cries, and Maeglin after her, along one of the aqueduct’s many tributaries. A broken stone column stood in the middle of the stream, and on top of it, a thoroughly drenched cat. He seemed to be swatting at something below. 

They realized then that the base of the column was swarming with gigantic black rats, so filthy and horrendous that they surely must have crawled directly from Angband, the fortress of Morgoth.

“Dolias!” cried Idril, and ran toward the water, but Maeglin seized her arm.

“It’s too dangerous,” he said. 

Indeed, some of them were missing patches of hair, their red eyes filmed over and oozing, some with flecks of foam around the mouths. 

“It was a good effort, but we had better leave Dolias behind.”

Idril wrenched her arm away from him.

“He’ll die!” she said, “We’ve come this far. You must help me save him!”

“And risk getting bitten? Ilúvatar only knows what plague these vermin carry.”

But Idril pleaded with him, and eventually Maeglin relented.

He slipped his shirt over his head and threw it carelessly onto the ground. Bright lines, reflected from the underground river, rippled over the taut skin of his strong, slender back. In build he somewhat resembled his uncle, Turgon, who was her father the king, though Maeglin slouched, concealing his true height.

He took from his pocket a device of his own creation, a torch-and-flint that could be lit with one hand. He drew his pocketknife. As Idril watched, he stepped into the cold underground current.

The water was up to his navel when he neared the stranded Dolias. With a flick of his fingers, he lit his torch. He leaned gingerly forward, trying not to disturb the chittering beasts below. The cat shrank away from him.

“Maeglin! Be careful!”

Maeglin turned his head sharply to see the biggest, most foul of the rats open its jaws, prepared to leap off the column and sink its yellow teeth into his shoulder. In a blink, his knife-hand darted out, and he sliced the animal cleanly in two. Steaming guts dropped into the water, and Idril looked away in disgust. She made a mental note to tell her father that there were mad rats in the well-water.

Maeglin put the torch between his teeth. His patience gone, he yanked Dolias from the column by his tail with his now-free hand. Holding the ungrateful, decidedly unintelligent creature over his head above the water, he made his way toward shore as it screeched and clawed. 

A forceful swell tumbled down the river and hit him full in the face, and he came close to losing his footing to be swept away in the unrelenting current.

Coughing and heaving, disheveled and waterlogged, he returned to the bank where Idril stood. 

Maeglin picked up his shirt from where he had tossed it aside and wrapped up the freezing cat before handing him to Idril. He sneezed. His best breeches were dripping. 

“Oh, Maeglin,” said Idril, won over, “You were wonderful. You’ve saved Dolias. I am sorry you had to endure such trouble.”

“It’s all right,” he said stoically. He took off each of his shoes in turn, emptied them, and then wrung out the ends of his breeches.

Idril undid the clasp which fastened the green mantle she wore. Bare-shouldered now, she wrapped the delicate garment around the shivering Maeglin, who gathered its folds around himself. It smelled faintly of her lily perfume.

The two of them started the long walk back the way they came, Idril holding the traumatized Dolias, and Maeglin’s wet hair leaving a water-stain along the intricate embroidery of Idril’s mantle. 

She chided him lightheartedly for suggesting they leave her companion behind, and he responded with the crinkling of the corners of his mouth, which she now recognized as his smile.

ø

They climbed back up the steps back to the light of the setting sun. Idril felt a certain fondness for her companion now. After all, they now shared the memory of journeying into the depths of Gondolin to rescue poor Dolias from the rats. That made them at least friends. She vowed not to treat him like a stranger in the future.

“Maeglin,” she said to him, “My father is hosting a Yavanna’s ball six days from now. I would be very happy if you came.”

Maeglin said nothing, but untied his wet hair so it would dry in the wind.

“You must come,” she pressed him, her eyes dancing, “And you must ask my friend Narfin to be your mate. She is a truly warm person, and I know she finds you fair.”

“I don’t know Narfin,” replied Maeglin, avoiding her gaze. 

“Whom, then?” said Idril, “Name the one you love, Maeglin, and I will speak to her on your behalf. It is the least I could do after you have helped me so.”

But Maeglin took a step back from her.

“There is no one,” he said, “And if there were, she would not have me.”

“I dislike guessing games,” laughed Idril, “Name her at once!”

Maeglin did not mean to tell, but his eyes gave him away: defiant and lonely, they flashed with sudden wanting. He broke away from her gaze, mortified, but it was too late. 

She learned then that all the rumors in court were true after all: of all the maidens of Gondolin, pensive Maeglin loved none other than his own cousin, Idril Celebrindal.

It was her turn to step back from him, repelled. 

In despair, his lips formed her name for the first time that day: “_ Idril. _”

“Maeglin,” she said, trying to be kind, “I thank you for your confidence, but you know it cannot be. Your mother was sister to my father. It is not the will of the Valar to court kin so near. I am grateful to you today for your help; but for your own sake, you must love another.”

To this, Maeglin gave no reply, but shed her wet green mantle and folded it. He placed it gently back into her hands and walked away, his back still bare.

ø

It was nighttime when Idril realized that the pretty aquamarine clasp was missing-- the one she had unfastened to remove her mantle. She lamented, realizing it must still be down in the tunnel by the water, but it wasn’t precious enough to go after. She had many more.

But in truth, Maeglin had been unable to part with it when he picked it up from the ground, and had held it in his fist as he departed. Back in the smithy, sure no one was watching, he now pressed it between his lips, felt the shape of the rough little stone that still tasted faintly like his cousin’s perfume. 

He closed his eyes and tilted back his head, conjuring back the memory of being near her under the ground. At times her hand had brushed against his clothing by mistake, or even against his hand. So pure and full of life she had been, with her face all aglow in the torchlight. He thought of the folds of her mantle around him, still imbued with her warmth. 

She surely must have heard the pounding of his heart, or sensed the heat emanating from his face. He shuddered, held his upper arms tightly with his hands, willfully ignoring the things his body was starting to tell him about her, things he wasn’t sure he wished to think about, or to feel. He was twenty-one. It was unfamiliar to him, this anatomic type of frustration, this animal wanting that was as shameful to him as it was insatiable.

How did she decorate her bedroom? He had never been inside.

What kinds of sweets did she like to eat? 

What was she thinking of, right this minute?

Was there someone Idril thought of, the way he thought of her?

He remembered the first time he came across her alone, sitting by the fountain in the summer with her dress over her knees and her bare toes skimming the flagstones beneath. He had averted his eyes, hurried to the stables, and cantered his mare fast and hard around the pasture, grinding his hips forcefully into the leather saddle, and had quite overtired her. Afterward he stood there still burning, squeezing a wet rag over his horse’s heaving chest. He knew what to do to make it go away, but he would not, could not do such a thing while thinking of his own cousin, it would have been detestable. 

Did Idril touch herself?

He flushed red as these thoughts intruded, as though he might be found out. She would despise him if she knew what had just run across his mind, alone in the dark of the smithy with her jewel against his tongue. How precious the clasp was, intricate and delicately made. They didn’t make such exquisite things where he came from.

He had not meant for Idril to find out, had never wanted her to know. But then there had been that fumbling confession, the lapse of stupidity that might have ruined things forever. Perhaps he would never be allowed so near her again. And yet, today, this day that had begun so unremarkably, he had had her all to himself… he knew he would treasure it forever.

He polished the clasp with tail of his fresh shirt, and laid it on the small shelf near where he worked every day. He looked over often to where it glinted in the firelight, in the years to come.


	4. The Mines Beyond Caragdûr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But Maeglin prospered and grew great among the Gondolindrim, praised by all, and high in the favour of Turgon; for if he would learn eagerly and swiftly all that he might, he had much also to teach...he sought in the Echoriath (which are the Encircling Mountains), and found rich lodes of ore of divers metals. Most he prized the hard iron of the mine of Anghabar in the north of the Echoriath, and thence he got a wealth of forged metal and steel, so that the arms of the Gondolindrim were made ever stronger and more keen..."

"Why do you wish to leave Gondolin, Maeglin?" asked King Turgon, "Are you not happy here?"

"I won't be long, uncle," replied Maeglin, "Two months, three at the most. The dwarves will lead us into their mines in exchange for elf-made weapons, and we will return with more ores, as we have always done."

They were standing in the side-gardens at the cusp of summer, amidst droning bees and a chorus of songbirds.

Turgon was surpassingly tall, his features stark and strong. He wore white and gray, the colors of Gondolin marble. His wrath was encountered so seldom that most knew only stories of it. But it was said that even veteran generals cowered before his scowl, that in battle he led with an iron will, and would die before he faced surrender.

Nevertheless, those closest to Turgon knew him first as a good man: steadfast, honest, and merciful. Not every king would have taken Maeglin into his house and held him in honor as Turgon had, after Eöl’s treacherous deed. If one ill thing could be said of Turgon, it was that he was too proud: of Gondolin, of the Noldor, of the absolute might of good in this world. 

He was one of the few Maeglin had liked, almost immediately, on principle. Yet Maeglin’s liking for Turgon occasionally gave way to inexplicable paroxysms of hatred. Maeglin was ashamed by these feelings, and suppressed them by being ever more demure, respectful, and eager to please. 

"I want to know why, Maeglin," said Turgon, "I scarcely see you in my house. You escape from every party, every ball, if you attend at all."

Maeglin sighed imperceptibly. He knew his uncle meant well. But how could he begin tell Turgon what he had endured in the last few months? Idril had stopped speaking to him. He hated to walk about in Gondolin, hated to be seen in court, where rumors of his lust for his cousin grew ever more malignant. Some even said that his fascination with Idril was borne of the loss of his own mother, whom she undeniably resembled.

It was this love that was the greatest agony of all. He felt no pleasure anymore from seeing her face, felt no warmth from her serene, Vanyarin glow. He hated the bottomless wanting, hated the barbed jealousy in seeing other men look at her, hated the perversion of loving his own first cousin. 

Because Idril loathed him, everyone loathed him, and he loathed them all back even as he wished to be loved. He wondered often what was wrong with him, what defect was inside him that made him hateful to so many, including himself. The chancellor had called it “darkness”. Such a trite word. But if it were true?

Even as visions of Idril’s face filled his waking hours, Aredhel’s memory came to call at night, just when he thought he had fallen asleep: his dreams were of her pale hand seizing over the edge of her deathbed, her gurgling screams, the paradoxical calm of her dead eyes. He jolted awake to the flash of a javelin in flight, burned into his eyes.

The only solace he had found was to bury his heart completely. He fled day after day to the smithy, crushing rocks and folding steel until the ring of the hammer in his bones blissfully eradicated his ability to feel.

The smithy was his constant companion. It never shunned him for smiling too little, nor did it abhor him for his father's crimes, but rather, it offered up spectacular creations to him so long as he stood working with his tools and fire, rewarding him for his dedication.

“Maeglin?”

Maeglin realized he had never answered Turgon’s question. 

“I’m sorry, uncle,” he said, “I  _ am  _ happy here. Gondolin is far more beautiful than I could ever have imagined from my mother’s stories. You have been good to me, better than you should have been, and I am thankful.”

Turgon put his hand on Maeglin’s shoulder.

“You don’t need to lie to me,” he said, “You’re allowed to grieve for what happened.”

_ I don’t need your fucking permission _ .

The vicious thought had sprung into his head without warning, and Maeglin quickly quashed it.

“Yes, uncle,” he said. But it was too late. Turgon had seen the shadow that passed over his face. 

“Maeglin,” said Turgon gently, “I want you to know I care about you very much. You are like your mother in so many ways. And I don’t believe I’ve ever told you how proud--”

“You don’t--”

Maeglin swallowed, already regretting the sentence he had started. But it was too late now, and he had no choice but to finish it: “You don’t have to be my father.”

Unmistakable pain came to Turgon’s eyes, and Maeglin was disgusted with himself.

“I’m sorry, uncle,” Maeglin said hastily, “That was obscene of me, I didn’t mean--”

“How could you ever forgive me?” said Turgon, shaking his head, “By Ilúvatar, I robbed you of a father on the very day of your mother’s death.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Maeglin at once. 

Kneeling before the king, he continued, “It was the right thing to do. I cannot say I never loved my father, but no more after he became my mother’s killer. I swore allegiance to you that day, and you have it still. My love also. Give me your blessing, uncle, and I shall return with jewels and ores to add to the richness of Gondolin."

"Your safety is to me above the most precious of jewels, Maeglin," said Turgon, "But there is more at stake. There are many spies of Morgoth outside these walls, and he desires nothing more than to know Gondolin's whereabouts. For a long time we have lived here, safe from his forces. If you must go beyond Caragdûr, do not stray beyond the Encircling Mountains. Be always on your guard."

To this, Maeglin agreed, and rose to kiss King Turgon's hand. But Turgon pulled his hand away and instead pulled his nephew into his strong embrace, which was cautiously returned.

"Be careful, Maeglin, and return soon. You will be missed."

Ø

The next day, the horses were saddled, the  _ lembas _ bread packed, and their small party gathered at the innermost of the Seven Gates. Elmoth, Maeglin's own dappled-gray mare, fidgeted, the heavy packs more weight than she was used to carrying. 

She had been bred and foaled in Nan Elmoth, her namesake, and bore the eccentric look of steeds from this region: slight of build, and with exaggeratedly long hind legs such that her hindquarters stood slightly above her withers. A born jumper, she effortlessly cleared the rivers and stones in the forest where no paths ran. Tenacious and flighty, she would tolerate no rider except for her master.

They were four: Maeglin, Thénarion the head-smith, a guard, and another apprentice. They departed Gondolin at sunup with little fanfare, with each of the Seven Gates opening before them in turn.

For two days they picked their way through a seldom-traveled mountain trail. Steadily they rode, speaking to each other only sparingly, stopping only to fill their canteens. They were to meet with the dwarves at the base of the southmost of the  _ Melered _ , a chain of five mountains stretching into the clouds. They camped in pairs, in clever elven shelters made of light layers of fabric.

The others swatted frequently at the insects, and cursed when branches or strands of thick spiderweb flew into their eyes. Maeglin seemed unaffected. He had been born in the forest, after all. Well they traveled into the night, for he could go by moon and starlight alone, and could guide the rest.

Ø

On the third day, they reached an unassuming stone arch carved with coarse runes, below which was a short oaken door. None of them would have seen it if Thénarion had not already known where it was.

The oak door was thrust energetically open. Behind it, many pairs of black eyes greeted them, peering out from behind bushy beards. They had reached the dwelling of the dwarves. Each stout specimen stood no more than four feet high. Their clothing was of leather and iron over muddy brown fabric. A few of them bore their axes, having prepared to meet intruders.

Recognizing Thénarion at once, the dwarves hailed them with rough cheer. They emerged in a drove from their stone caverns, shouting their salutations up at the mounted elves with their short arms outstretched. Thénarion dismounted and knelt down to embrace these acquaintances, and the rest of them imitated him, climbing down from the backs of their horses.

They untacked their horses and loosed them into the open, as they would not fit into the dwarf-tunnels, knowing the loyal animals would come back to them when the time came.

After a while, the dwarves motioned for the elves to follow them down into their rock-hewn halls and taverns. More and more dwarves seemed to join them from various doors as they went. From all directions they appeared, in twos and threes bearing casks of ale, heavy cakes, and platters of meat. 

Down and down they went into the dwarven halls, stooping slightly to avoid hitting their heads. Rough iron torches mounted on the wall illuminated unfamiliar runes. From somewhere unseen, a chorus of low voices sang a dwarven hymn that reverberated richly in their chests as they walked. Far from being musty and dank, this place was bright and dry, warmed also by the dwarves' hospitable spirit.

At last the elves were seated at a long, oaken table that their knees didn't quite fit under. They ate a little, and warmed up after a few cups of ale. After some light conversation and food, they reached for the packs they had brought with them.

From their packs they drew fantastic goods from Gondolin: crimson Vanyarin wine and cheese, fine elven sweets, and ladies' silks. They brought out the knives, the best to come out of the forges of Gondolin, and a few axes.

A particularly husky dwarf with a gray beard, who was their leader, took the axe in his arm and tossed it, testing its heft.

"Too light," he grunted, "And the handle too narrow. But I like the hunting knives."

Thénarion smiled and inclined his head.

"It is well noted, Lord Baldur. We will do better next time."

"I'll take it all the same," said the dwarf heartily, taking a swig of ale, "A toy for my brother's lad to swing around."

The dwarves rummaged some more through the packs of their wares. Soon the areas of the long table not covered in food were occupied by the elves' creations. The dwarves talked amongst themselves, comparing this knife to that, or intently rapping on the side of a silver goblet to test its quality.

Then they saw Baldur's beady eyes widen behind his bushy eyebrows.

"Oh, I do like this," he said reverently, "I like this very much."

He held up a shining black breastplate, sized just right to fit a well-fed dwarf. It was damasked with an interesting geometric pattern in bronze. With it came a handsome helm.

Baldur raised his axe and brought it down swiftly upon the armor. A shower of golden sparks flew from the impact. When they faded, no mark was left in the mysterious black metal. 

Murmurs of wonder came from all around.

"Your work, I assume, Thénarion?"

The master-smith smiled.

"Nay, Lord Baldur. This one is Maeglin's."

Baldur looked up in surprise, seeming to notice Maeglin for the first time.

"It's a fine piece, my boy. Hard as  _ mithril _ , but lighter still."

"Harder," said Maeglin, the corners of his mouth curving, "It is  _ galvorn _ , a metal of my father's invention, but I have improved upon his technique."

The dwarf was incredulous.

"Why, I haven't seen  _ galvorn _ in five years," said the dwarf, "I used to buy it off some folks who claimed it was made by an elf in a cloak. Went by Eöl."

"I am his son," explained Maeglin, "My father is dead."

"Aye! I am sorry to hear it," said Baldur.

He clapped Maeglin on the shoulder so hard he almost fell into the soup.

"To Eöl!" He raised his flagon.

Maeglin glanced swiftly at Thénarion and the others, worried they would say something. But all three of them bowed their heads and raised their drinks to his father's memory as though Eöl had been among the most venerable of the Noldor.

They all became very drunk that night, and eventually they were all linking arms, and swaying back and forth, singing along to an old dwarven ballad.

"You're all right, you elf-lads," hiccuped the dwarf called Galdur, who was Baldur's cousin. "We don't usually care your folks in the city, but you few are welcome anytime-- bring us more knives! Bring the wine! Bring yourselves! We will make merry until the sun rises." And his eyelids drooped as he fell forward onto the oaken table.

"Bedtime," said Baldur facetiously.

They were shown to simple but clean and snug dwarven bedchambers and bid good night. Maeglin lay awake in the dark, feeling like a small creature of the earth, comfortable in its underground den. Though he had to draw his legs up to his chest to fit his elven height into his bunk, he felt strangely at home here, just as he did down in the smithy. 

He wondered what it would be like to live like this, and sleep under the ground, or under the stars when it pleased him, and never to talk to one of his own kind again.

He heard the other apprentice yawn from the bunk above his. His long day's journey caught up to him then, and he closed his eyes and thought no more.

Ø

The next day, the dwarves led them up through the tunnels to the mines. Maeglin and Baldur walked side by side. Thénarion and the other apprentice walked some distance behind them. A caravan of sturdy donkeys paraded in tow. The guard who came with them brought up the rear.

The dwarf pointed with his stubby finger to things that missed Maeglin’s eye.

“Sandstone,” said the dwarf, indicating a subtle yellow tone that had crept into the gray of the mountain’s face, “Sometimes dwelling amongst granite, masquerading as the harder stone. Many a tunnel has collapsed because the rock was not tested after being hauled from the quarry.”

Maeglin nodded silently, his eyes glinting with interest. His breath came to him sharply now with the exertion of their uphill climb, filling his lungs with the pristine mountain air. A pleasantly cool breeze picked up as they walked. His affection for Baldur had grown swiftly, for the dwarf talked of earth, rock, and metal: things that could be had and mastered, things that could be felt with the hands, and understood.

They stopped by a clear, cold creek, fed by a snowmelt that continued here even at summer’s edge. Baldur produced a small metal cup and handed it to Maeglin, who took it and filled it.

“Drink, my boy,” said Baldur, “You look as dried as my wife’s mother.”

Maeglin put the cup to his lips and let the water course over his tongue. A small trickle ran over his chin and down his neck. Involuntarily, a whimper of satisfaction emanated from his throat.

“Not bad, eh?” said Baldur, smiling.

Maeglin nodded and took another sip. The water was cold, with just a hint of the stones of the riverbed in its crisp taste. The familiarity of that taste dawned on him like a childhood friend. It was the taste of freedom.


	5. Infection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Idril's handmaidens causes a scene in Turgon's tearoom. Perhaps she understands more than it seems.

On  _ Elenya _ , the first day of the Elvish week, Turgon entertained eminent guests in his tearoom. Today, the three of Gondolin’s most renowned healers were present. Two appeared aged, and the third was young and fair. Turgon wore light summer’s robes, of pale yellow and blue, and a high collar, fastened with a silver ornament in the shape of a diving sparrow.

Idril sat to her his right as she always did, dressed in a light blue gown that matched her father’s robes, and translucent silk around her shoulders. They sipped spiced Vanyarin tea from crystal cups. Idril tapped her reluctantly slippered foot under the table, skillfully masking her boredom with her charming smile

“Infection,” said the first healer, “Is a plague of the spirit. When wounds afflict the body, the spirit grows weary, and longs to pass through halls of Mandos. As it departs from the corporeal form, the flesh rots, the fever rises, there is a great shudder as it fights to break free.”

“Indeed,” said the second, “The wounded warriors on the battlefield among their slain kindred; women after a long and protracted childbearing; children who are not merry and grieve their mothers-- infection takes them, and they are tested to see whether the body prevails over the spirit. Mortal men are weaker in spirit, and fallible; easily do they succumb to infection.”

“Do you mean to say,” said Turgon, spinning his teacup in the saucer, “That infection can be overcome by force of the will?”

“That is the truth.”

“It cannot be, surely!” protested the third healer, who was younger than his companions, “I have cared for the sick and the wounded, and many of them wish to remain in Arda, not ready to pass into Valinor.”

“Ah, it may appear so, young Tiromer,” said the first healer, “But the spirit can be deceiving. They may thrash and struggle, but truly, they long for their kin in the peace of the Undying Lands.”

At this, the handmaiden refilling Idril’s teacup badly stifled a snort of laughter. The healer who just spoke looked over, irritated.

“Does our discussion amuse you, lady?” he asked patronizingly. The handmaiden looked astonished, and shyly put her hand over her mouth. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, “I laughed not at your words, but of an incident I recalled from this morning.”

The healer narrowed his eyes, unconvinced.

“What is your name?” he demanded. 

Idril and Turgon exchanged uncomfortable glances. 

“It is Gilwen, sir,” replied the handmaiden. 

“Gilwen,” said the healer, “Slanting black eyes, black of hair, narrow in stature. A  _ Sindar _ if I ever saw one. How did you come to Gondolin?”

At this, Turgon held up a polite but firm hand. 

“Peace, Lord Oromen,” he said, “Gilwen came to Gondolin with my sister Aredhel. She was Aredhel’s most beloved servant, a skillful seamstress. She is now handmaiden to my daughter Idril, and lives as one of our own.”

“ _ Gilwen _ ,” said Oromen, unpleasantly, “What do you know of that which we speak? What have you to say about infection?”

Gilwen blinked, and before she could stop herself, blurted, “Well, you’re mistaken, sir. Infection cannot be an ailment of the spirit.”

A faint maroon color rose in Gilwen’s pale cheeks, as each eye in the room fixated upon her. Idril sat up in her chair, her interest returning to her for the first time.

“And why, bless your heart, do you say so?” said Oromen.

Gilwen hesitated, already sorry she had spoken in the first place.

“Infection is a living thing, my lord,” she said, “It comes from earth, from sullied water, from the body itself. For that which kills the living kills infection-- boiling, cautery, lye. What poisons a man, destroys infection too.”

Oromen raised his thick eyebrows.

“And what proof do you have?” he asked.

“None, sir, but what I have seen with my own eyes of the world. Why do the midwives boil the sheets after delivery? Why do we roast our game rather than eat it raw, as the beasts do? Why do we soap wounds and cauterize gangrene? To prohibit life, my lord, and for no better reason.”

The older two healers looked at each other and burst out laughing. Even the youngest healer, Tiromer, could not help but grin at the ridiculousness of the handmaiden’s words. 

“Preposterous!” said the second healer, “A woman’s superstition. We roast game because it is detestable to consume uncooked blood, like a common animal. We cauterize because fire hastens the healing of skin, nothing more. As for the midwives, why, that whole profession is cloaked in more mysticism and superstition-- it is a wonder children are born at all!”

But Tiromer looked thoughtful, and shook his head.

“Her words have some merit, Khildur,” he said, “If meat is left in the sun for a day, it rots, like an unclean wound,” he said, “You cannot tell me it is the spirit of the killed animal fighting to enter Valinor!”

At this, Turgon and Idril laughed aloud in unison. Khildur’s face bore an expression of the greatest indignance. When the king saw that his guest was offended, he grew diplomatic at once.

“You are skilled for your years, Tiromer,” said Turgon, “But you do not have the experience of Oromen and Khildur, your elders. One must never grow too wise to learn from those who have preceded us.”

“That may be,” said Idril, her clever brown eyes alight, “But the aged can also learn from the young. What about the creations of mortal men? Their lives are short, and their entire world belongs to the young. Every day, I hear stories of ships that rival our own in speed and durability, of devices that can mill and fell trees in an hour with just a team of horses. They move quickly, because they’re not hindered by the wisdom of the ages. Oromen, Khildur, your knowledge and experience is surely unparalleled in all the land. But you must also heed the young, for they see all things with fresh and unclouded eyes.”

“Your words are wise, my lady,” said Oromen, his face softening, “Forgive me, Gilwen. There may be some truth to your little theory, after all.”

ø

After they left, Gilwen lingered, gathering the cups and saucers from the table, and replacing the table-linens. 

Though Oromen had not recognized her, she vividly remembered the three healers: Oromen, Khildur and Tiromer. They had all been present at Aredhel’s bedside as she lay dying from the poison in Eöl’s javelin. They had tried incantations, plasters, tinctures of the herb kingsfoil, none of which had made the slightest bit of difference. They had forced medicines down her throat, which Aredhel had gagged back up, convulsing in agony with her eyes rolling back into her head. In the middle of the night, despite their combined efforts, Aredhel had gone still and rigid, a thick brown trail of Oromen’s herbs dribbling from her blue lips. 

Maeglin had watched from across the narrow bedchamber. Gilwen had tried to cover his eyes then, but he had pushed her hands aside. His eyes had gleamed through the dark, fixated on his suffering mother.

Gilwen jerked her head sharply, clearing it of the ugly memory. Black-haired, straight and tall as Oromen had described, with a smooth oval face and black eyes slightly upslanting, she stood out easily from the fair, angular Noldor elves of the Gondolindrim. Her gaze darted incessantly around the room, absorbing every detail, trying to name and understand everything she could see.

When she sat down to her sewing and embroidery, her movements were not demure and delicate, but forceful, and deliberate, almost like a man’s. And yet her work was always impeccable, which is what first had ingratiated her to Aredhel when the Noldorin princess had first arrived to live in Nan Elmoth.

The very same forcefulness occupied her keen mind. With her Sindarin temperament, she was quick to speak thoughtlessly against those she believed unenlightened. So had she blundered just now. Her impudence had incurred the wrath of the masters she served, time and time again. 

Gilwen chewed her lip as she cleared the table, in apprehension of the remonstrance she would inevitably receive for disgracing the king. 

She heard the ornate screens shift as Idril entered. She wiped her sweating palms on her servant’s gown, trying to steady her pounding heart.

“Forgive me, Lady Idril,” she said, her head bowed, “I spoke above my station.”

She braced herself for verbal punishment, waiting to be relegated to kitchen-work for the rest of the year, forbidden to show her face to Turgon’s guests any longer.

She glanced up in time to see Idril regarding her with an inscrutable expression. Then, to Gilwen’s surprise, Idril smiled. 

“There is nothing to forgive, Gilwen,” she said, “You have more brains than those two bores combined. It is certainly a damned waste for you to spend them sweeping and mending.”

Gilwen only stared, speechless, her hands full of spoons and napkins.  _ What in Nienna’s name?  _ She had fully expected to be scolded. And here was the king’s daughter, praising her in spite of her transgression.

“Starting tomorrow,” Idril continued, “You shall be my servant no longer. You will live as a lady of the court, and you may wear my clothes and jewels as your own, and anything else you desire from the palace tailor. And you shall study under those three healers, Oromen, Khildur and Tiromer. I shall order them to educate you as one of their own apprentices.”

At this, Gilwen’s eyes widened. She knelt hastily, and the skirt of her simple servant's uniform billowed out around her. 

“It is too generous, my lady,” she said, “It pleases me very well to serve you as handmaiden.”

“Rise, Gilwen,” said Idril in mock impatience, “If I must dismiss you outright to get you on your feet, I shall!”

Gilwen rose. She held back the urge to pinch her own arms, half-certain she was in the middle of ridiculous dream. She, a mere servant, an outsider to the city, join the ranks of the nobles at the side of the princess? It seemed as fantastical as a children’s tale. What would she tell the other maids of the house?

“There are no words to express my gratitude, Lady,” she heard herself say, “Still, it is far too generous. But if it pleases you, I will study under Oromen and the others. I should like to learn from the midwives, also. My own mother died of childbed, and I loved her very dearly.”

Idril’s smile grew in her triumph. She nodded in satisfaction.

“Then you shall study under the palace midwives too. I will see to it. And you shall call me ‘Lady’ no more, but by my name: Idril.”

She smiled warmly and took Gilwen’s hand, which was still filled with spoons.

“There’s no need to be so solemn, Gilwen,” she said, “I would like you to be my friend. It makes me glad to see a clever woman who speaks her mind. Why don’t we go out to the market together? Then we will know each other better, and you won’t be so shy.”

At long last, Gilwen’s features melded into a small smile to match Idril’s. She placed the silverware back on the table. Arm in arm, the two left the tearoom, on their way out of the palace to the Great Market on that sunny  _ Elenya _ afternoon.

Ø

Escorted by a palace guard, Idril and Gilwen rode over the stone-paved paths toward the Great Market, which occupied the northern corner of Gondolin. 

Gilwen felt distinctly out of place. After some coaxing, she had consented to wearing one of Idril’s dresses: yellow, with flowing sleeves. The fabric was far finer than she had ever felt against her skin. Her shoulders were slightly narrower than Idril’s, and her bust smaller. The dress was loose at the neckline, which only reinforced how strange it was for her to be wearing such a beautiful thing, how little she belonged as a lady riding by Idril’s side.

The Great Market was at the height of activity,  _ Elenya _ being a day of rest for all. Colorful awnings roofed stalls of every shape and size. Rugs and silks waved gently, suspended from above, and the smell of fresh rolls, meats, and drink wafted tantalizingly over their heads. Lovers meandered across the square, arm in arm. Children chased down playmates, their parents following watchfully behind. Old friends stopped in small groups in the shade of the  _ mallorn _ trees, conversing with their arms full of their purchases. 

Idril and Gilwen hitched their mounts, and at Idril’s insistence stopped first by the stall selling sweetened tea. As they walked up, heads turned, and the people of Gondolin waved gaily as Idril passed. Evidently the sight of the princess walking barefoot through the Great Market in the summer was not an uncommon one. 

They procured two cups of tea, and the shopkeeper tried to wave away the coin Idril held out to him, which was over thrice what their purchase was worth. But Idril only smiled and pressed it into the hand of the shopkeeper’s young daughter, and flitted away before he could protest.

From stall to stall they went. Sometimes Idril would buy a pretty thing that caught her eye, only to give it away immediately to a child looking up at it with the utmost longing. When she saw Gilwen looking at her in wonder, Idril only shrugged and said, “It is easy to be kind to others, when you yourself want for nothing.”

In the late afternoon they were approached by a young boy holding a trio of brilliant tulips: white, yellow, and red. 

“A gift for the lady, from my father’s flower stall,” said the boy, “From an admirer.”

But when Idril reached out for them, the boy pulled back, and shook his head.

“Nay, Lady Idril,” he said shyly, “For the dark lady, dressed in yellow.”

And he held the tulips out to Gilwen.

Idril burst out laughing at the perplexed look on Gilwen’s face.

“Our first afternoon as friends, and already you are my rival in love,” she said. She held out a candy to the young messenger.

“For your pains,” she said, “And tell Lady Gilwen’s admirer that his gift is very gratefully received.”

As they walked away from the flower stall, Gilwen could no longer suppress the wide smile on her face. The implications of the day’s events were just catching up to her: she was really going to become one of the royal healers. She would be able to come back to the Great Market, whenever she pleased. Idril wanted to be her friend. And someone had just given her flowers. It was easily the best day of her life.

Just then, a snippet of conversation caught her ear.

“...wouldn’t trust Maeglin as far as I could throw him.”

The speaker was a broad-shouldered commoner holding a flagon of ale, talking heartily to three friends a few feet away. Gilwen frowned and slowed her pace, and Idril looked over her shoulder to see why she hadn’t followed. 

“Aren’t you being a little hard on the youngster?” the man’s friend replied, “He didn’t choose his father. But he’s the son of Aredhel, too, and she was a damned great woman.”

“Oh sure, he’s got Fingolfin in his pedigree,” snorted the first man, “But as far as I’m concerned, the other side’s Sindarin rot, and it’ll show itself like a bad smell. Blood doesn’t mix well.”

Gilwen felt her cheeks burn in fury. Sindarin rot? How dared they talk about Maeglin that way? They didn’t know the first thing about him.

“He’s peculiar, that much is for sure,” the third man piped up, “They say he didn’t bat an eye when Turgon snuffed his father, didn’t so much as shed a tear when they buried Aredhel. If you ask me, it speaks to something dark inside him. I just wish Idril would marry and give us a real heir soon. That Maeglin is no prince of mine.”

Idril, too, had caught this last part. Her eyes flashed, and she took Gilwen’s arm.

“Pay them no mind,” she hissed, “Come on.”

ø

It was getting dark by the time the two of them made their way back to their horses, weighted down by bags from almost every stall in the market. 

Gilwen had started telling Idril about Nan Elmoth: mystical flowers that bloomed only once every year, and for one day only. Shelters and bridges strung along treetops, made of light wood, from which the stars could be seen on warm nights. How every child learned to climb as soon as he learned to walk. Idril made a wonderful audience, taking in all of Gilwen’s words with an expression of awe. When Gilwen spoke of  _ garsnuffs _ , furry rabbit-like creatures that would hop up docilely to eat soft candies out of your hands, Idril actually squealed in delight.

They rode back toward the palace, their horses in step with one another.

“Lady Idril,” said Gilwen, breaking the silence.

“Just Idril,” her companion corrected her.

“Idril, I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but why have you been so kind to me? This morning I was but a servant in your house. I am not worthy of riding at your side, I have no place to speak with you so candidly.”

This time, Idril did not brush off Gilwen’s words or laugh, but she inclined her head in careful consideration of the question.

“Gilwen,” she finally replied, “I am the daughter of the king, and I have many admirers. But few whom I would trust to always tell me their truth. Earlier in the tearoom you, pardon me, spoke so cleverly out of your turn before my father and me in spite of your station as servant.”

“I knew then that I need never fear you would hide your mind from me. That when the time came, you would counsel me with wisdom and never conceal that which you feared would upset me. Thus, I wanted you as my friend, on the condition that you will never hesitate to say what you truly think of me, and of all things.”

Gilwen looked full into Idril’s lovely face, softly aglow in the falling light. She felt a sudden rush of affection for her as she realized, despite her throng of friends, despite her beauty and despite her father, Idril had a lonely existence, seldom seen simply for the person she was.

“Then I swear it to you, Idril,” said Gilwen, “I will be your friend. And I will be honest with you in all things.”

“And I promise you the same, Gilwen.”


	6. "Be my guide, Mama"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon his return from the Echoriath, Maeglin reflects on his childhood, and the events that lead to his coming to Gondolin.

Hoofbeats sounded from behind. Thénarion had nudged his horse to a trot in order to catch up to Maeglin’s mare, so they could ride side by side on the mountain path.

“We’re getting close,” said Thénarion, “In a mile or so we’ll be able to see Tumladen from above.”

He drank from his canteen and offered it to Maeglin as he swallowed.  
“I’m all right,” said Maeglin. Thénarion shrugged and drained the canteen.

“Lord Baldur spoke very highly of you,” said Thénarion, “He said you were a skilled smith, and an agreeable companion. For an elf, that is. He would like to see you again.”

“Did he,” said Maeglin, grinning, “That is high praise, coming from a dwarf. I don’t think my uncle will be pleased about my coming back too often.”

“As a matter of fact, I had a long talk with your uncle before we left,” said Thénarion, “Along with the chancellor of the Academy.”

Maeglin raised his eyebrows. It was hard to imagine the three of them in the same room, let alone having a conversation.

“What exactly did you talk about?”

“You,” said Thénarion, as though it should be obvious.

“Me?”

“Yes. Your uncle wanted to know how you were doing, and how he could do better to make you happy. He wished to understand you.”

Maeglin blushed, embarrassed Turgon had gone to such lengths for him.

“And… what did you say?”

“I told him I was a simple smith, and understood you no better than anyone else. That I recognized enormous potential, enormous talent, enormous promise in you, but could not possibly fathom the inner workings of your heart.”

“‘Enormous potential,’” chuckled Maeglin, “I’ll bet the chancellor loved that.”

“As a matter of fact, he agreed with me,” said Thénarion, smiling, “Although he seemed to think your potential was wasted.”

“That sounds like him,” said Maeglin, his annoyance bubbling up, “Did my uncle say anything more?”

“Yes. He asked me whether he should trust you.”

Maeglin stared at him.

“Turgon asked if you he should  _ trust  _ me?”

So Turgon had misgivings about him. Of course it made sense for the king to select his inner circle carefully; there was simply too much at stake. But to learn that his uncle had doubts about his trustworthiness somehow made him feel even more like an outsider, one whose loyalty was not taken for granted.

“Don’t be offended,” said Thénarion, as though he had read Maeglin’s mind, “King Turgon has no sons. He must prepare to name you his regent, even his heir, if some harm is to befall him. It is no reason to doubt his love for you. I am telling you this because you should know of the responsibilities that lie in your future.”

“What did you tell him?” said Maeglin, his expression inscrutable, “Do you think I am to be trusted?”

“I answered with my honest opinion,” replied Thénarion, “I told him I was but a simple smith, but it’s plain as day that there’s a battleground within you, where good and evil war with one another constantly, reaching far greater heights than I’ve seen in any other elf. I told King Turgon you would either make an astonishing sacrifice for him, or betray him utterly. There is nothing in between.”

Maeglin said nothing. He was surprised at how frankly Thénarion spoke of the evil he saw in him. He had scoffed when the chancellor spoke of “darkness”, but now he could ignore it no longer. Where had this evil come from? Could he rid himself of it?

“Have I upset you, Maeglin?”

“No. You’re telling me the truth.”

Maeglin, Thénarion, the apprentice, and the guard pulled their horses to a halt along the narrow mountain path. The four of them admired the sight of the Western wall of Gondolin, visible in the distance as a thin white line upon the bright green of the valley Tumladen. A delicate streak toward the sky marked the Tower of the King. 

Their packs were no longer filled with the wares they left for the dwarven mines with, but with rich ores of silver, iron and gold. They had enlisted the help of several of the sturdy donkeys, who trailed behind their company diligently, weighted down with the stones. 

Beneath Maeglin, the mare Elmoth pulled at her bit, eager to continue along the path home, where her sweet green pasture lay. Maeglin reached down and patted her neck.

Gondolin was one of the two mighty strongholds of the Noldor. The other was Nargothrond upon the river, in the West, ruled by King Finrod. Sindar and Noldor elves alike dwelt in Hithlum, under the reign of Fingolfin, who was father to Turgon, Aredhel, and his oldest son Fingon. Finally, there was the forest kingdom Doriath of King Thingol and Queen Melian. 

In the beginning of what would come to be known as the First Age, Turgon had been led by Ulmo, Vala of the Seas, from Nevrast, the first home of the Noldor, to the hidden valley Tumladen. Upon this valley he had built the white city, veiled from the eyes of Morgoth by the Encircling Mountains. 

For now, from all directions, the elves held Morgoth tenuously under siege in Angband, his iron fortress on the northern tip of Beleriand. The forces of Fingolfin and Fingon barred Morgoth’s forces from passing West, while the Sons of Fëanor kept watch in the East, from where they dwelt upon cold Himring. For three hundred years now, longer even than Gondolin had stood, the Siege of Angband had held. During this time, the Noldor had allowed themselves to enjoy an uneasy peace, becoming prosperous in the peace of the hidden kingdoms of Gondolin and Nargothrond. 

Gondolin did not trade with neighbors. Those who came within the gates were barred from leaving, so fearfully did Turgon keep the secret of Gondolin’s location. The city was entirely self-sufficient. Water from the mountain rivers fed the city through the enormous aqueduct from which Maeglin and Idril had rescued Dolias. Wheat grew thickly upon the fields of Tumladen, which turned rich yellow during the harvest season.

Reluctantly did Turgon recognize the need for ore. He was loath to even allow Thénarion and Maeglin’s small party to wander into the Encircling Mountains in search of bronze and iron, for fear of their discovery. In the usual elven fashion, he placed little trust in Baldur and the other dwarves who ruled the mountain mines. But even more did he fear that the city would be without metals from which to forge weapons and armor for defense, if by any accident Gondolin was found. 

There were but two entrances to Gondolin: the Seven Gates, and the smaller Northern Gate, which was built later for expedient access to the fields of Tumladen. 

The walls surrounding the rest of the city were impenetrable. Four feet of granite was concealed within the white marble. There were no gratings, or windows, or other such areas of weakness. Twice the height of the walls were hidden beneath the ground, where the foundation of the city lay.

Unbeknownst to Turgon, there was one flaw in the plan of Gondolin, one Maeglin had discovered by accident while venturing through the tunnels with Idril: there was a ten foot section of wall in the outermost of the tunnels which was made not of granite, but of sandstone. 

The significance of the difference in color and appearance was too subtle to be appreciated by even the keen eyes of the Noldor, but when Baldur had explained the various stones to Maeglin, this flaw had become immediately clear. Sandstone walls, even underground, could be breached more easily by several-fold than granite, if enemies knew of their existence. 

Maeglin toyed with this piece of new information in his mind. He knew he should tell Turgon at once, and have the flaw fixed immediately. But what harm would there be in a hidden way out of Gondolin, known only to himself? Where he could leave and enter the city at will without passing under the watch of the guards at the gates, where he could find himself within the innermost of the Encircling Mountains when he tired of the city’s gleaming facades? Easily, he could create a small passageway here, large enough for a horse and rider only. 

Elmoth chomped again at her bit, snorting. Maeglin loosed his hold on her mouth and they walked on toward Gondolin, with all the dwarven donkeys in tow.

He remembered riding along this very path two years ago, approaching Gondolin, his mother’s old home, for the first time. 

_ Be my guide, Mama, and I shall be your guard _ . 

With such pride had he said these words, pride that had multiplied when Aredhel’s face had lit up in true joy for the first time. The Noldor did not know the ways of the forest, and Aredhel’s original escorts from Gondolin had been accosted by the dark creatures of Nan Elmoth. The lords Elemmakil and Ecthelion, charged with protecting Aredhel, had lost her when they were ambushed by the wolf-sized spiders who lived among these trees.

But Maeglin had been raised in the presence of these fell creatures, had slain his first with a keen arrow when he was twelve years old. He alone had kept his mother safe all the way up to the edge of the forest, across the desert and through the mountains. The handmaiden Gilwen had been with them. She, too, had known how to weave a night’s shelter in the treetops, how to start a fire in the rain, and what shrubs of the forest floor could be safely eaten, and which ones were deadly poison. 

All throughout their journey, Aredhel had talked endlessly of Gondolin, of the banners and the towers, the showers of crystal that descended from the royal fountains. Tears had started in her eyes when she spoke of her great brother, Turgon, whom she had missed more than she could ever have known.

“I see my brother’s spirit in you, my son,” Maeglin’s mother had said, holding his pale face in her hands. She had smoothed a straight raven strand behind Maeglin’s ear.

“I see his courage, and his strength of spirit. I should have known my own child would lead me home one day.”

_ But I led you to your death, Mama. Into the jaws of the foulest spider of all. _

The party rode on, into the ravine Orfalch Echor, which wound its way up to first of the Seven Gates.

ø

Back at the smithy, Maeglin surveyed the metals they had collected, now melted down into neat bars. Most of it was iron and bronze. There was a little gold and silver as well. They had brought home also a number of unfamiliar ores from a secret cave that Baldur had shown him, ores that had emitted a strange light of their own in the cave.

He stood there at his table, tinkering with these different materials. Some were spectacularly hard, some supple. The most abundant of the glowing ores had a pearly blue sheen, but there was a reddish variant as well. The other smiths watched him scrape and hammer with a look of the utmost concentration on his face. 

Within a few months of beginning his training with Thénarion, Maeglin had been promoted quickly from apprentice to full smith. The fact he was the king’s nephew in fact had nothing to do with this change-- Thénarion prided himself of being the sole ruler over the smithy, his own little kingdom within Gondolin. 

But it had become impossible to ignore that fact that, prince or peasant, Maeglin was nothing short of a genius of a smith. He had already rapidly begun to surpass his seniors in knowledge and skill.  _ Galvorn _ and  _ mithril _ , sword and cuirass had tumbled from his forge in a constant stream, and sometimes immediately melted down and remade if they were not to his own exacting satisfaction. 

Surprisingly, Maeglin was a patient and dedicated teacher as well. If even the lowliest apprentice approached his table with a faltering question, he always set down whatever he was doing to help. Sometimes he went out of his way to help an apprentice with a difficult step, and stayed past hours if the pupil was willing, delving deeper and deeper into the theories of metalwork, sharing little tricks for every situation, and dwelling on his favorite subject, magic swords. 

He knew a the weapon of every great elf-warrior not only by name, but by its materials, weight, and dimensions. He knew, if necessary, what its downfall had been, and how it could have been averted. Sometimes at night, by the light of a dying fire, a group of boys from town liked to come and listen to his stories, and could be heard vowing to become great smiths themselves one day.

But since his return from the mines of  _ Melered _ , Maeglin had become quite irritable if anyone distracted him from his work. He had abandoned his other projects entirely, and devoted himself entirely to deducing the properties of the new ores. 

A leather-bound notebook lay open at the corner of his desk, filled with his unintelligible notes and diagrams, which were written in every direction, sometimes upside down, and sometimes in charcoal or even rust rather than ink when he could not find his pen. But he referred to them often, and leafed swiftly between the pages, and evidently they made perfect sense to him.

Confronted with these mysterious new ores, Maeglin now remembered his other parent: Eöl.

Eöl had been a full-blooded Sindarin, with slanted eyes, snow-white skin and straight raven hair. He had been handsome, mercilessly so, and charming when it suited him. He had prided himself on ruling over Nan Elmoth, his own small domain, separated from Doriath and outside the lay of the Girdle of Melian. 

His father had initially seemed to take very little interest in the child Maeglin, had never remembered birthdays, never wanted to play soldiers and orcs. Maeglin had to play with Gilwen instead, when she was not too tired from the washing and cooking to entertain him. 

But as he neared the age of twelve, Maeglin began to resemble his father uncannily: his round child’s face had slimmed down, his voice had changed, and he seemed somehow to grow paler. Even the expressions he wore began to mimic Eöl’s. 

His father’s disinterest vanished. Remarkably, he remembered Maeglin’s twelfth birthday and presented the boy with a real sword, one of his own creation. It had been a little too heavy, and Eöl had frowned at this, remarking that young Maeglin spent too much time inside, with the women, and was rather weak for his age.

Thus had begun their hunting trips together, the slaying of Maeglin’s first spider. Eöl now seemed obsessed with molding his half-Noldorin son into the exact image of himself. He grew impatient if Maeglin laughed too loudly or cried, as such a show of emotion was not properly Sindarin. 

He disapproved of all hobbies except fighting and smithing, which he believed were the only two true professions of the elves. And when Maeglin wanted to stay late at the forge, he bestowed upon his son the only form of praise he ever gave: the shining of his keen black eyes.

He had given his son his name, Maeglin, which in their language meant “sharp glance”, as the shine of Maeglin’s eyes so matched his own. Often the two stood side by side at the forge, Eöl speaking softly in a stream of Sindarin and Maeglin nodding with rapt attention.

“Stand up straight as you work, Maeglin,” Eöl would say, “Even if you are doing delicate work. You think you can see better if your face is leaned up against the fire, but you are only going to burn your nose.”

Or: “Never force the metal, my son. Do not anger at it. The steel cares not. Instead, learn its ways, learn the reason for your failures. And thereafter, it will answer to your command like a loyal hound.”

He taught his son to fight all foes without feeling, not even wrath, for it would cloud his judgment, and leave him vulnerable. He would send Maeglin into the forest to bring him the fangs of ten spiders, warning him not to return until the task was complete. He bid him to spend hours practicing with his bow, unsatisfied unless Maeglin was able to loose his arrow within two seconds of his fingers touching the fletching. 

Maeglin strove hard for his father’s approval. He had once liked to play the harp in the evenings, and sometimes games of chess with Gilwen. But both harp and chessboard gathered dust in the corner as he played no more, for these things did not impress Eöl. When his mother had begged him to sing her an old Noldorin tune she had taught him, he had said only that he did not feel like it, and besides, it had been too long ago to remember.

Aredhel had despaired at the change in her little son, and had pined for Gondolin all the more. She had sent secret prayers to Ulmo, the patron god of Gondolin, to sway his young heart back toward his mother’s kindred.

Her prayers were answered. When Maeglin turned twenty, he had expressed a wish aloud at the dinner table to see the majestic place where his uncle reigned as King. 

Eöl had flown in anger then, calling his son an ungrateful traitor, an impudent bastard. Aredhel had opened her mouth to defend Maeglin, but before she could, Maeglin’s own rage had flared up to match Eöl’s, his young face contorting in a wolf’s snarl she had never before seen.

Father and son had screamed at each other unrestrained, and to Aredhel’s horror, they had come to blows, wrestling upon the tiles, exactly equal now in their strength. 

That night, Maeglin had come into his mother’s room with a bag already packed. 

_ Mama, let us go to Gondolin now, before Father awakens. Be my guide, Mama, and I will be your guard.  _

Mired in nostalgia, remembering the fateful events that had occurred as a result of his rashness that night, Maeglin stood alone in the dark of the smithy, pulling the metal mask off of his face. Everyone else was long gone.

Before him, the mysterious ores glowed brightly.

_ I’m sorry, Mama. _

Goodness would win in him, he decided. Come what may, he would fight by Turgon’s side if war came, and he would die at his uncle’s side if he had to. Perhaps battle would be his redemption. Perhaps if he fought bravely enough, the darkness in him would disappear.


	7. Á Avatyara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the last chapter of Part I, we meet Glorfindel again - he recounts the story of the terrible battle known as the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and the part he and Maeglin had to play in the tragic events.

_ The four of them have formed a comfortable, easy acquaintance: Glorfindel, Curundil, the young mortal, and the old one. They banter during chores. Other times they work in the natural silence of each other’s company. It had been close to a year before they talked of anything more portentous than the weather. _

_ Glorfindel has noticed each of the three other mariners looking at him in turn, when they believe he is unaware. He has seen the question on the young man’s smooth tanned brow, in the old man’s furrowed eyebrows, in Curundil’s clear green eyes. But they have never asked this question, out of respect for Glorfindel, for which he is thankful. _

_ The months they spent together lengthened into years. Over their shared lunches, sunny days sitting on overturned crates on the upper deck, they’ve told their stories little by little: in snippets, in jokes, in remembered scenes. _

_ The young man is of a farming town in the swath of continent east of the Misty Mountains. The old man has never spoken of his childhood, but he has followed the sea for a long time. Curundil was born to exiles of Doriath some years before the fall. And eventually, Glorfindel revealed for the first time that he had once called Gondolin home. _

_ It is now an hour before high noon, when the young man asks, falteringly, whether Glorfindel has lived through the disastrous battle of the First Age that would later be known as the _ Nirnaeth Arnoediad _ : Elvish for “Tears Innumerable”. _

_ Curundil glances quickly and reproachfully at the young man. Elves consider it extremely rude to discuss the _ Nirnaeth _ in light conversation. Glorfindel, too, is taken by surprise. The young man bites his lip with regret instantly after the words have left his mouth. And the old man sits by, sharpening his knife with an air of indifference, but his ears are pricked up and listening behind his gray beard. _

Nirnaeth Arnoediad. _ Just consciously thinking the name of the battle feels like probing a wound, like releasing an aching grief from the captivity of his memory of that has never been assuaged, only forgotten. _

_ There is nothing poetic, nothing romantic about the story at all, though latter day storytellers always tried to make it so. _

_ “Forget I asked,” says the young man anxiously, his face flushed in shame, “I’m sorry.” _

_ But Glorfindel fixes him with his measured, inscrutable stare. _

_ “Don’t be sorry,” he says, “You couldn’t have known. If you still want to hear it, I will tell you the story. You’ve earned it, friend. But you must excuse me if it grows difficult for me, at times, to go on. It’s a sad story, and one I’ve never told anyone before.” _

__   


_ It had all started when the Siege of Angband had broken. First the watch of the sons of Fëanor foundered in the East. A sudden torrent of flames lit the grassy plain, up to the very heels of the fleeing horsemen. A host of terrible creatures poured over the harsh face of the Iron Mountains, creatures Morgoth had created during the long siege to be his army: orcs twice as large as common; goblins in the thousands, roaring Balrogs and grunting trolls. _

_ But towering above them all was the terrible dragon called Glaurung. Belching flame, armored in scales of crimson steel, Glaurung was Morgoth’s masterpiece, a project he had worked on in secret through the four hundred years for which the siege had held. When he thrust his wings into the sky, an entire valley drowned in darkness. _

_ Despite their valor, the elves under the sons of Fëanor were forced back to Himring, unable to subdue the rampaging dragon. The armies of Fingolfin and Finrod failed shortly after. Morgoth’s army stormed all of Northern Beleriand. With the pent-up wrath of four centuries, he beat out a path of destruction, swallowing entire towns, slaughtering all who lay in their path. Balrogs chased down women fleeing the sack of their homes, snaring them with flaming whips and devouring them whole. _

_ When news of the massacre reached King Fingolfin, he wept in rage and sorrow. He broke free from the hands of his son, Fingon, shouting for his sword. _

_ Fingolfin rode for a full day, straight to Morgoth’s door, as unflinching in his path as an arrow meeting its mark. The bugling of his chestnut stallion, rearing mightily on the steps of Angband, was his challenge to Morgoth to meet him alone in combat. _

_ Fingolfin and Morgoth dueled. Over and over again the elven king was beaten down, and each time he stood up again to cross his sword with Morgoth’s mace. But in the end he could not match Morgoth, who had once been one of the Valar. The dead king was snatched from the floor of Angband by the eagle Thorondor before Morgoth’s fires could defile it completely. _

_ South flew Thorondor with Fingolfin’s body, over the Encircling Mountains and Tumladen, landing right on the steps of Turgon’s palace. The king of Gondolin sank to his knees by the bloody bundle that fell from the eagle’s talons. Idril and Maeglin, the grandchildren of Fingolfin, flanked him. They knelt on either side of him as he sobbed openly over his father’s body, and how cruelly Morgoth had defiled it. _

_ Within two days, Turgon conjured an army of ten thousand, prepared to march for Angband to fight at the side of his brother Fingon. The Seven Gates of Gondolin opened wide, all at once, and the Gondolindrim rode North to the Iron Mountains. _

_ In their absence, Idril Celebrindal ruled as regent. Turgon had approached Maeglin first, but to everyone’s surprise, Maeglin refused to remain behind, vowing instead to fight by his uncle’s side. Within the two days it had taken for Turgon to assemble his army, Maeglin, Thénarion and the other smiths of Gondolin had run the forges all through the night to supply them with arms. Swords, shields, helms, cuirasses, and vambraces of _ galvorn _ and _ mithril _ poured from the smithy. _

_ What would come to be known as one of Maeglin’s greatest inventions came to light: weapons that would glow blue when enemies were near, heralding danger. _

_ As they rode up to Angband, the dead already carpeted the ground so densely the charred plains were barely visible beneath. Turgon had fought with terrifying ferocity, hewing through orc after orc in his search for Fingon amidst the carnage. _

_ Maeglin had just turned one-hundred-fifty-one years old, and had never seen battle. Many of the Noldor had wondered if he might be killed quickly for his foolhardy decision to leave the safety of Gondolin. Instead, he proved to be an astute warrior, quick and sure. On his nimble mare, he weaved swiftly through the ranks of the orcs, his black sword darting into flaws in armor. With a practiced, almost mechanical grace, he pulled arrows from his quiver and loosed them so fluidly that no one ever saw him draw back the string. _

_ He fought almost with an air of dispassion-- not once did he blink or grimace as he hunted down his foes, even as all around him, cries of despair rang out from his kin. But in the end, he retreated in exhaustion with the rest, as wave after wave of orc appeared over the hills to replace those that were killed. _

_ By then it had ceased to feel like warfare. They were throwing their swords and their bodies against a force that could not be stopped, an enemy that had appeared to be an army but truly was an insurmountable infinitude. _

_ It was futility, pure futility, Glorfindel thought, as the battle raged on and the flames burned higher. He commanded his battalion toward the Southern front, bolstering a small brigade of mortal men and dwarves. Together they stood against orc, troll, and Balrog. Red and black blood mingled over the earth, miring the fields. The roast-meat smell of burning flesh bathed them as they fought on, without rest or food. _

_ A bitter defeat was their reward. Fingon was long dead by the time Turgon reached him. So many had died along with him. Glorfindel ordered the retreat with tears streaking the ash on his face. But for the valor of the mortal brothers Huor and Húrin, the remaining Gondolindrim would not have escaped alive. _

_ In defeat they turned back toward Gondolin, culled in number like summer lambs. Maeglin’s arms had served them well, or they would have been fewer still. Through the gates they brought the wounded, with no infirmary to hold them. They lay beneath tents in the city square, groaning through the night. Oromen, Khildur, Tiromer and Gilwen went without sleep, draining belly wounds, amputating ruined hands, mixing medicines as their apprentices sprinted from cot to cot, hurrying to inject morphine through crusted needles before the next patient began to scream again. _

_ The living soldiers carried their fallen friends from these tents to the city wall in a steady stream, day and night, and kissed their foreheads before casting them over the rock. There was no time to dig graves for all of them. _

_ For a year or more, there were no more songs sung in Gondolin, no more feasts, no more balls. The silence of the dead hung in the air. Black cloth replaced the gleaming cerulean banners once flown from the palace windows, in commemoration of Fingolfin and Fingon, and the many thousands lost. The fountains sat neglected. Moss grew over the eyes of the statues and algae covered the tepid surface of the pools. That year was an endless funeral, and the Great Market became a wake. Where were you during the _ Nirnaeth Arnoediad _ ? Whom did you lose? _

_ Matters fell into disarray. With the farmers dead and gone, the unplowed fields grew thick with weeds. Orphans and widows went about on their streets, begging, their caregivers slain. _

_ Even in their own mourning, all Gondolindrim turned their hearts tenderly toward the plight of their Turgon, their king. His father and brother now buried, the Crown of the High King of the Noldor now fell upon his grieving brow. There had been no coronation, no ceremony, for the passing of the bloody crown. _

_ Idril, of all people, was the one who saved them. In truth, she was regent still, for she knew that her father had not truly returned from the _ Nirnaeth _ . She gathered the Council, extracted pensions for broken families from the royal coffers, and built up orphanages throughout the city. She paid destitute women to assume the work of their dead husbands, enough for them to put milk and lembas on their tables once more. _

_ She went into town every day, gathering children around her for such tasks as sweeping the littered streets, painting little murals for the fallen on the walls. While her friend Gilwen toiled to bathe the wounds of the soldiers, Idril took upon herself wounds of the soul. _

_ Shortly after that bleak year had passed, Maeglin had founded his own House: the House of the Mole. He took in the fatherless and orphaned who demonstrated an aptitude for craftsmanship and smithing. They wore leather circlets around their heads, and mahogany tunics that bore the insignia of a mole with its claws outstretched, its snout turned skyward. _

_ ø _

_ With a sad smile, Glorfindel tells his companions how Idril recounted those days to him in the years after: how it was in the Year of Mourning she came truly to know her father, and the burden he had carried since the Exile of the Noldor. _

_ She told him of the day she was standing up on the ledge of the King’s Tower, leaning idly on her father’s staff, looking over the roofs and spires of Gondolin, and all the orphanages she had built, over the fields of Tumladen once more verdant and fecund. And she had felt a hand on her shoulder. Beside her stood Turgon. The expression on his face was unbridled pride, and love. She embraced him joyfully, and placed the staff into his outstretched palm. The King of Gondolin, now High King of the Noldor, had returned to her at last. _

_ ø _

_ The sun is out and they are sitting on the deck, sharing lembas bread and riding a steady westerly breeze. Glorfindel’s story comes to its end. _

_ “What became of the elves who were slain in battle?” the young man cannot help but ask, “Isn’t it true that elves don’t sicken and die as mortal men do? That yours is the gift of immortality?” _

_ “It is true,” replies Glorfindel, “Though some would not call it a gift. Our bodies are not altered by time as are those of mortal men, whom we call the Edain, and many of the ailments that plague them do not affect us. When slain, we pass into Valinor, in the blessed realm of Aman.” _

_ “Valinor?” asks the young man, “Do you mean to say elves live on in this place even after they are killed in battle?” _

_ “Indeed.” _

_ “The Undying Lands,” he says with wonder, “To us it is mere myth. What I would give for elven immortality, to sail the sea on days like this until the end of the world.” _

_ “And yet, the end of the world would come,” laughs Glorfindel, “Are you prepared to witness it? To carry your cares and burdens with you until the song ends, and all things die, and you along with it?” _

_ The old man butts his way into the conversation. _

_ “Wouldn’t live forever if you paid me,” he grunts, and to the young man: “You’ll learn to see it as a gift when your bones grow as old as mine have. But, Glorfindel, what becomes of the wicked?” he asks, “The guilty and the sinful among the elven-folk. Do they, too, live on in paradise for eternity?” _

_ Curundil answers this time. _

_ “It depends,” he says, “You see, we elves-- or Eldar as we call ourselves-- do not simply step off our ships into Valinor. Rather, the spirits of Eldar and Edain alike pass into the Halls of Mandos, that is, the Halls of Awaiting. There, the Eldar await, for a time, until the time is deemed right by the Vala Manwë, whereupon we are returned to our bodies, and walk once more among our kin in Aman.” _

_ Glorfindel tilts his chin up and watches the clouds somersault across the cerulean field, the color of Gondolin’s banners once upon a time. _

_ “It is said,” he adds, “That the wicked repent as they await their rebirth. Some dwell in the Halls of Mandos for an age or more, thinking on their past deeds. Some remain there still.” _

_ He pauses. _

_ “But those truly treacherous ones-- murderers, kinslayers, traitors-- theirs is a different fate. They may never walk in Aman, nor are they granted the release of a mortal death. Instead, their spirits are cast out of Valinor, and forsaken, to dwell in the wilderness like a beast and forbidden from ever again taking the form of one of the Eldar.” _

_ Curundil looks over at him skeptically. _

_ “Glorfindel,” he says, “That’s a mere story told to frighten children into obedience. How did you come to believe it for yourself?” _

_ Glorfindel raises his golden brows ironically. _

_ “Because,” he says, “I have died.” _

_ At this, the three mariners gawk at him. _

_ “You’ve died?” says the young man, “You mean to say you have seen all of these places for yourself? The Halls of Mandos and the Undying Lands?” _

_ “Yes,” says Glorfindel gravely, “I was cast over a ledge during a siege. I awoke to colored points of light in an infinite darkness, and there was a voice that came not from within me, but from everywhere: it bid me to return. _

_ “Glorfindel,” says Curundil softly, “I did not know.” _

_ “ _ Á Avatyara _ ,” Glorfindel continues, “Is Elvish for ‘forgive.’ To be given a new body is to be forgiven by the Valar for one’s sins in life. We live a long time, and all of us have failed, and at times been wicked toward one another. To us, ‘ _ Avatyara _ ’ means not only forgiveness, but a second chance. A second life which we hope will be better than the last.” _

_ “ _ Á Avatyara _ ,” repeats the old man, lapsing into his own thoughts. _

_ They all lie back on the deck and watch the clouds. _

_ “Life is beautiful,” says the young man. _


	8. The Coming of Tuor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor turns up on Gondolin's doorstep.

On the eve of Nost-na-Lothion, the festival of Spring's beginning, Lord Ecthelion of Gondolin, the Warden of the Great Gate, sat at the edge of the South Fountains. The ice was just melting, and floated in great drifts over the surface of the pools. It was well known that Ecthelion took great joy in these fountains.

He could always be seen here on warm days, after his duty was done, watching the water stream down from two stories high, over the enormous marble statues of the Valar, down into the shallow basins where cod flashed their scales of crimson and gold as they weaved between the stalks of water lilies.

Today, a few finches had ventured from their nests to drink and bathe in the crannies of the headdress adorning Eléntari’s statue. Ecthelion observed them contentedly, a half-murmured Spring's song in his mouth.

At this moment, a white sphere appeared in the sky, growing larger as it flew toward him. Ecthelion started before he realized it was a fat messenger dove, which alighted beside him, flapping and cooing. Its leg bore a scroll.

Bemused, Ecthelion relieved the bird. It took off with a huge rustle and cry, showering him with tiny white feathers as he unrolled the message. He shook these off as he read:

_ Two intruders found at Orfalch Echor. I have taken them prisoner, they are held near the First Gate. Will slay them at your word. Merry Eve-of-Nost. ~Elemmakil _ .

Ecthelion rubbed his temples, sorry to be disrupted from his fountain-viewing. Grudgingly, he stood and whistled for his bay gelding, who was drinking from the pool. At his signal, the horse grunted and tossed his mane. Then he arched his neck and clopped over to his master, appearing most regal.

Ecthelion donned his silver helm. It bore a single shining spike. He climbed onto the big gelding's back, and nudged him northeast toward the Seven Gates.

ø

Elemmakil, the Captain of the Guard at Orfalch Echor, stood at attention with the guards awaiting Ecthelion's arrival. A pair of cloaked figures sat at their feet, gagged and bound back to back, presumably the prisoners Elemmakil had described in his note.

"They were seen approaching the First Gate, Lord Ecthelion," he explained, "They asked to speak with you."

With a sneer, he added: "I told them they would be lucky to speak again."

Ecthelion dismounted and walked over to the prisoners. He reached down and threw back the hood of the first.

By his build and face, he was unmistakably a mortal man, yellow-bearded and haired, rather handsome for his kind. As Ecthelion uncovered his face, he strained through his cloth gag, mumbling frantically.

Ecthelion ignored this and unhooded the second prisoner. This time, a pair of melancholy gray eyes stared back. These belonged to an elf.

"Voronwë!" exclaimed Elemmakil, recognizing the second prisoner with astonishment. He drew his knife and cut through the elf's gag. Voronwë coughed.

"Merry Eve-of-Nost, Lord Elemmakil," he said. His voice was slow, tired.

Voronwë had been an elf of Gondolin, and their friend. After the  _ Nirnaeth _ , Turgon had concluded, at great cost, that Morgoth would not be defeated by the valor of elves and men. Nine years ago, sent several small parties, including Voronwë's, to sail west, seeking the dwellings of the Valar in hopes of their assistance in vanquishing the Dark One.

"Voronwë, son of Aranwë!" said Ecthelion, "Did you not sail for Aman nine years hence?"

"I did," replied the gray-eyed elf, "But our journey was ill-fated. We never found the lands in the West, and shipwrecked far from shore when we returned for Arda. By the grace of Ulmo alone was I saved, but all the others are no more."

As he said this, a shadow of pain darkened his features. Elemmakil and Ecthelion bowed their heads somberly.

"We mourn your loss, Voronwë, and we welcome you back to Gondolin," said Elemmakil, "But your companion is a mortal man, and must be slain by our laws. It is forbidden for their kind to set foot in the city."

"I know it, Captain Elemmakil," said Voronwë, "But this mortal man is Tuor, the son of Huor, a great friend of Turgon the King, who fought alongside us and lost his life in the  _ Nirnaeth _ that more of us might survive. He bears a warning from Ulmo, the Valar of the Sea. Upon his shoulders, then, rests the fate of Gondolin itself."

The man, still gagged, grunted and thrust his head in the direction of a heap of weapons lying several feet away. These had been stripped from them when they were captured.

Ecthelion walked over to the pile and picked up an elf-made shield. Painted on its front was a fading but recognizable insignia of a white swan over a blue field.

"These are Turgon's arms," he marveled, "From long ago, in Nevrast, before your father lived. How did you come by them, Tuor son of Huor?"

He nodded at Elemmakil, who bent down and cut Tuor's gag as well. It was the blond man's turn to splutter and cough.

"Ulmo spoke to me," said Tuor, son of Huor, "He led me to the city where King Turgon once lived. Then he appeared before me directly, and spoke of the doom of your city."

Tuor opened his mouth to speak again, but instead of Common Tongue, a stream of strange and powerful words, neither Common nor Quenya or Sindarin, flowed from the mortal's lips. For half a minute or more, he relayed his message in this austere language as Ecthelion and Elemmakil watched.

A ringing seemed to fill the air when he had finished.

"That is the tongue of the Valar," whispered Ecthelion, "Such words could only come from one of the Ainur."

He and Elemmakil exchanged inscrutable glances.

"Very well. We shall take him before Turgon," he said. Elemmakil nodded and loosed the bonds that held Voronwë and Tuor. Ecthelion drew himself to his full lordly height, and turned to address the man.

"Because Voronwë is with you, Tuor, and because you have invoked the Tongue of the Valar, we will trust you mean us no harm. But know that you shall not be permitted to leave Gondolin alive while the city stands."

The Oaken Gate, the first of the Seven, opened slowly behind them. Voronwë and Tuor rose. Surrounded on either side by guards, Tuor took his first steps into the great city of Gondolin. He would be the last of his kind ever to do so.

ø

They were received warmly by Turgon himself. He recognized Tuor immediately as the son of his father, and berated Ecthelion and Elemmakil for their rough treatment of him. They sulked away like disobedient hounds.

Tuor and Voronwë were bathed in heated candle-lit pools and fed delicious soups, a welcome event after a long winter on their mountain journey. Elven tailors replaced their tattered traveler's cloaks with bright, soft fabrics. When Tuor tried to speak of Ulmo's message, Turgon only waved his hand, saying he would not be burdened by heavy portents until after the  _ Nost-na-Lothion _ festivities, which he insisted that Tuor and Voronwë join in.

Tuor, agreeing the matter was not urgent, and eager to heed the king, consented to this.

That night a grand feast was to be held at the palace, and the evening after, a splendid ball. Seeing Turgon receive the stranger with such graciousness, Ecthelion and Elemmakil warmed to him as well, and after Tuor had rested, they begged his pardon for their rudeness before, and offered to take him around the city before suppertime.

He regaled them with tales from his youth in captivity, his escape from the Easterlings, his life as a vagabond. By the time they returned to the palace, their misgivings were gone and they talked like old friends.

ø

They were led down to the dining hall at seven o'clock. The other guests had arrived early, and were standing around in little groups, conversing softly as they sipped their spiced wine. Tuor had never before seen such a large gathering of elves. Their faces were fair and young, their hair was long, and they all wore spring robes in celebration of the occasion, in yellow and blue and green. Overhead, delicate crystal chandeliers glimmered down from the vaulted roof.

At last, Turgon appeared at the top of the stairs. At his right arm was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

So this was Idril Celebrindal, daughter of the king. Tuor felt his heart stand still as he watched her descend, arm and arm with her father, holding the hem of her gown aside with the slender fingers of her other hand. This evening she wore her silver hair in a single braid. It framed her faintly glowing face like a moonrise behind her. Her head bore no crown but a spray of white flowers tucked behind each ear.

To his astonishment, Turgon led her to the seat directly beside Tuor's.

She turned toward him while he was still staring, sensing his dumbstruck gaze.

Tuor put on what he hoped was a pleasant, neutral expression as the king introduced him to his daughter. He was relieved when Idril's face lit up in a brilliant smile. Such a smile it was, pure and warm, filled with an intrinsic joy. It had been a long time since he had seen a woman. He realized all at once how much he had missed them: so soft, so fair, so simple and and indecipherable all at once.

ø

They exchanged friendly words over the bread, grapes, and pheasant. She told him about each of the dinner guests when he asked, including Glorfindel, a strikingly handsome elf with brilliant gold hair. Glorfindel sat on the other side of the table, laughing merrily at someone's joke, unaware of Idril extolling his reputation to Tuor as a legendary warrior with the virtue of a Maia.

"He is the noblest among us all," she said, "It is said he would defend even fugitives of the lowest rank against danger, the same as any lord or king."

Of Ecthelion, she said: "Though he goes about as lordly as a gander, his heart is soft as down, and he is brought to his knees with the sound of a beautiful song."

She pointed out her closest friend: "Gilwen, whom we call the envy of Mandos, for she stole so many from the clutches of death after the  _ Nirnaeth _ with her knowledge of the healing arts."

And of her father: "High King of the Noldor, the last son of Fingolfin and the father of Gondolin. I am very lucky to call him my Papa."

ø

Halfway through the meal, Tuor told an old joke he had heard once in a dwarf-tavern. To his delight, Idril almost choked on her mouthful of food, laughing loudly.

After that, they talked easily, and endlessly, about everything Tuor could imagine. Time seemed to wind on without them. Around the time the dinner plates disappeared, replaced by dessert without his noticing; when an hour had gone by that felt like an instant, he realized he was, as certain as could be, falling in love with her.

Little by little, the conversation died down, appetites were satisfied, and guests had begun to leave. The entire time, the eyes of Idril and Tuor hardly left those of the other, had barely registered the activity around them at all.

But as quiet gathered around them, Tuor noticed the elf sitting across the long dining table at Turgon's left hand.

"Who is that?" he whispered to Idril. 

Her smile faded slightly.

"That is Maeglin, son of Aredhel, my father's sister," she said, "And my cousin."

"Ah," said Tuor, "I don't think he likes me much."

"He likes hardly anyone," said Idril flatly, "He spends most of his time down in the smithy, or else he is away in the Encircling Mountains, mining in the company of dwarves. Pay him no mind. It is no fault of yours."

But it truly did seem to Tuor that Maeglin's black eyes held a special scathing animosity for him that could not be totally imagined. While Idril became absorbed in conversation with her father, Tuor took the opportunity to turn toward Ecthelion, who was sitting on his right, to ask what he thought. 

In reply, Ecthelion chuckled merrily, his cheeks tinged red from drinking. He cupped Tuor's ear in his hand.

"Maeglin is in love with his cousin Idril," said Ecthelion with the glee of a gossiping child, "And for him she has no love at all. It is with envy that he scowls at you so, for you have been in her good graces all night."

A look of clarity came to Tuor's face. He couldn't blame Maeglin for loving Idril, after all. Presently, Maeglin left the table.

Eventually only Tuor, Idril, Turgon and Ecthelion remained, with the empty plates and empty chairs, and Ecthelion brought tears to the king's eyes when he took the lute from his girdle and played a sweet, sad melody that reverberated across the dining hall. Then he bowed and got up to go home.

With that, it was time for bed.


	9. The First Day of Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeglin learns to dance.

It was past midnight on what would be the first day of Spring. The moon rose over the waterfall among the trees. Glorfindel stood before him in his dress clothes. He unbuttoned his shirt, gritted his teeth, and slipped it off over his head, shivering a little in the cold nocturnal breeze.

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The story of how this moment came to pass began hours ago, when the evening was young. It had been the night of Turgon’s annual  _ Nost-na-Lothion _ ball. 

Maeglin’s birthday happened to fall on the  _ Nost _ , and every year Turgon made him promise to attend this celebration, for Maeglin made excuses to avoid all of the others.

And so, reluctantly, when the sun set, Maeglin exchanged his usual nondescript tunic for a silk shirt borrowed from Turgon, who at first had insisted Maeglin don a Spring robe-- a suggestion met with an incredulous stare.

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The ballroom was no less grand than expected of the palace of Gondolin’s king: it was a single circular chamber, so large that one must shout to be heard on the other side. Fluted marble columns soared upward into slender white vaults, crisscrossing the ceiling like the ribcage of a giant animal. Swirling stone tracery adorned one hundred peaked clerestory windows, through which the first stars winked on the darkening sky. 

Maeglin sat alone at the edge of the ballroom. He was still except for his dark eyes idly following Turgon’s guests as they glided across the polished floor in twos. Music flowed unceasingly from the strings of the musicians. 

The charming Lord Ecthelion was seen twirling and catching Narfin, the red-haired friend toward whom Idril had nudged Maeglin all those years ago.

Somber Voronwë rose from his seat, hesitantly, at the encouragement of his old friends, and into the arms of a pretty maiden. From the way his hands rested at her waist like they belonged there, they must have been lovers long ago.

But the most intriguing pair of all occurred shortly after, when the mortal man called Tuor strode over to the ring of softly chattering ladies of the court, and tapped on the shoulder of Idril Celebrindal.

Idril wore lavender. Her braids were pinned at the crown of her head, and her feet were bare. She turned toward Tuor’s touch. As she did so, the whole of her beauty fell upon him all at once. The dozen pairs of eyes belonging to Idril’s friends stared from where they stood in a protective semicircle around her, clad in their long, vibrant ballgowns. But Tuor gave no notice as he bowed and extended his hand.

For an infinitude of a second, she surveyed the man standing before her, this stranger of a mortal brazen enough to ask the king’s daughter for her first dance of the evening. Then she smiled and let her fingers fall into his upturned palm.

They danced. Slowly at first, as they felt out the bones of the song, as they grew accustomed to the forms of each other's bodies. Thereafter they moved as one. 

The lords and ladies alike cast curious glances at the pair: Turgon’s daughter and Huor’s son, the elven princess and the young man, the incongruous grace of a doe cavorting with a steed. 

Tuor’s lips moved as he said something only Idril could hear, and she giggled brightly, wrinkling her nose. The song ended, and the next began. She did not let his hands go.

Eventually Turgon tapped Tuor’s arm so he could dance with his daughter, and Tuor took a turn with Gilwen. 

Lord Glorfindel, too, had been unable to resist asking Idril to partner with him for the length of a song, so sweet and inviting did she look that night. At this, the other ladies looked on with unmasked envy. How maddeningly handsome he was! But they needn’t have worried, for, after the song ended, Glorfindel danced with each of them in turn. He changed his partner every few songs, never refusing a request, even when it was the lowly scullery maid who shyly caught his eye. He had given each the same attention, the same gentle smile be they ravishing or plain. And when he bowed and let their hands go, their longing eyes remained on him for the rest of the night.

Maeglin swirled the wine in his glass, far away from where Turgon might see him and try to pull him into the festivities, away from the side of the ballroom where Idril and Tuor were. He had never been so aware he did not dance, that he did not like to be touched.

As the pair draw near, he averted his gaze, down to the pattern of the floor tiles. There was the familiar throb of his heart breaking, the sensation he greeted like an old foe with whom he had made peace. How was it possible? How did she still trounce him bloody by her indifference alone? Without a hint of malice, without even touching him?

Gilwen came to his rescue once. She appeared out of nowhere to sit and engage him in idle conversation so he would not be alone. But he felt ashamed to burden her like this, and urged her to leave him when the next song started. 

She then danced gaily with fair Tiromer, the youngest of the three master-healers of Gondolin, who had defended her words to his superiors the day Turgon entertained them in his tea room. Maeglin watched them with a sense-- not of envy, but of brotherly protectiveness. They had come to Gondolin from Nan Elmoth together, after all, and in a way Gilwen was his closest kinswoman.

Perhaps he could leave quietly, now that the king was tipsy and distracted by the cheer.

“Pardon me,” said a man’s voice just as he was about to dart for the door.

Glorfindel stood there. How he had spotted Maeglin alone in the corner was a mystery.

“May I sit down?”

“Good evening, Lord Glorfindel. Yes, of course.”

He tried to hide his perplexity at the fact Glorfindel had joined him, of all people, away from the scores of his friends at the other end of the floor, and all of the beautiful women who still wanted to dance with him. Glorfindel was as effortlessly composed as Maeglin was guarded. He collapsed expansively into the chair beside him, crossing his long legs. 

“I’m glad I found you,” said Glorfindel, as Maeglin filled his wineglass. 

“You… you are?” said Maeglin stupidly. As far as he could recall, he had never exchanged more than a casual greeting with this man. He was frankly embarrassed that Glorfindel had chosen to sit next to him. As we are well aware by now, Glorfindel was very handsome and well-liked, and Maeglin had just been, well, hiding alone in the corner on his own birthday, plotting his escape.

But although he felt somewhat small and plain in the presence of Glorfindel’s generous beauty, he was not altogether upset for the company. There was something inviting in that languid posture, something that suggested that the two of them just might have something to talk about. And he had to admit that-- his eyes flickering over the impeccable angle of Glorfindel’s jaw, the poetry in his face, and that golden hair-- he had to admit to himself that wasn’t as keen to leave the room as he had been before.

“...Tiring,” Glorfindel was saying, “I mean, I’d enjoy these parties even more if everybody didn’t care so much about keeping up appearances. People should just say what they mean, don’t you think?”

Maeglin thought for a moment, trying to construct a response that would show he had been listening just now, when in fact he had been gawking like a schoolboy.

“Honesty can be frightening,” he said finally, “Don’t we all wear our little lies around us like garments? Revealing the truth about ourselves, letting people know who we are underneath-- that’s like, well, being naked.”

Glorfindel looked at him with raised eyebrows, and Maeglin felt his cheeks warm. But then Glorfindel tilted his head, and smiled thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he said, “It’s not easy, I’ll grant you. But I always feel as though I know when it’s safe to trust someone with my true self. Do you know what I mean?”

Glorfindel’s blue eyes were looking deep into his, and Maeglin was tempted to look away, suddenly afraid they would see too much. But he met Glorfindel’s gaze steadfastly. Let him see, then. 

“I think I know what you mean,” said Maeglin, a smile creeping onto the corners of his mouth. He had noticed something unexpected: that Glorfindel brightened and warmed the dull scene like a candle, and that he, Maeglin, was not impervious to this effect.

Just then, Glorfindel’s face lit up, and he suddenly leaned in very close. His voice dropped to a soft, conspiratorial murmur.

“Oh, Maeglin!”  
“Ah-- yes?”

“That girl over there-- in the yellow dress-- she’s got her eyes on you.”

“What? No she doesn’t--”  
“I’m serious, she hasn’t stopped glancing this way since we started talking.”

The warmth rose again in Maeglin’s cheeks. Glorfindel was so close that Maeglin could see the detailed contour of a lovely fawn-colored birthmark just below his eye, and feel the pulse of his breath as he spoke each word. It excited him somehow, that the two of them were huddled together in this private conversation, sharing a secret from the world.

He cast a furtive glance in the direction Glorfindel indicated with his eyebrows. Then he shook his head and laughed.

“Oh, no,” said Maeglin, “She’s looking at _ you _ . As I would have expected.”

“What do you mean?” said Glorfindel, puzzled.

“I mean, no woman would look twice at me, not with you in the same room.”

To his surprise, Glorfindel visibly flushed deep pink.

“I don’t think that’s true at all,” he said, “I honestly have no idea why you think I’m the more appealing man.”

“For Ulmo’s sake,” said Maeglin, “Everyone loves you, Glorfindel. You’re a hero in battle, and that’s just the start. Even you must know that you’re damned handsome.”

“I’m not a hero,” said Glorfindel, looking startled and distinctly embarrassed, “In fact, between you and me, Maeglin, even if there are some who look at me in that light, I-- I don’t often feel that way. Sometimes I envy you, actually.”

“You  _ envy _ me?” Maeglin snorted, “Why?”

Glorfindel took a thoughtful sip of wine.

“Because you’re your own man. Unbeholden to anyone, unafraid to forge your own path, unconcerned with what anyone thinks. I couldn’t say the same about myself. And talented! We would have been lost but for the arms you forged us at the _Nirnaeth_ _Arnoediad_. If you must know, I myself was hopeless as a smith, although not for lack of trying.”

“Glorfindel,” said Maeglin, grinning, charmed to learn this little secret, “There’s really nothing to it at all. Any day, any time at all, I’d love to show you how it’s done. Trust me, it’s much easier than it looks.”

Glorfindel grinned back.

“Oh, I would love that!” he said happily, “Would you really do that for me? I only wish there were something I could teach you in return.”

Maeglin’s heart suddenly leapt at the fact that his simple offer had made Glorfindel smile so brightly. His next words took all of his humanly courage to say, and he would never have said them, were anyone but Glorfindel sitting next to him.

“Well, Glorfindel, I’ve never told this to anyone, but I… I never did learn how to dance.”

Without another word, Glorfindel sprang to his feet, and took Maeglin’s hand. Maeglin was led through the dozens of pairs of dancers, between ballgown hems and around heels of silk shoes. Glorfindel placed Maeglin’s right hand on his own waist, and took the other in his right. Glorfindel was tight and slim at the belly, like a colt. Maeglin’s neck tickled in apprehension. People must be watching, he thought, they would see how ungainly and green he looked, attempting these steps for the first time.

“Don’t worry about the others,” said Glorfindel, detecting his companion’s nervousness at once, “None of that matters. Keep your eyes on me.”

Maeglin complied. He gazed up into Glorfindel’s face.

“Now the first thing is how tightly to hold her,” said Glorfindel, squeezing Maeglin’s left hand, “Be gentle, but sure. Support her if need be, but only if she  _ asks _ \-- like this.”

He placed the slightest amount of pressure against Maeglin’s palm. Maeglin was at once aware of the clean, cedar scent of Glorfindel’s soap, the softness of the gold hairs on his forearm. He held his breath. It was the type of forearm a woman might stare at for hours: strong and graceful, a poem written in flesh and bone. 

“You’re too stiff,” Glorfindel hissed, “Unlock your shoulders. Give in to the the music, and trust me. I won’t let you fall.”

Maeglin hesitated. It was unfamiliar enough as it was, being this close to someone. The thought of letting his body go, of unraveling himself in the presence of another-- it frightened him a little. He thought wildly of fleeing right then and giving up learning to dance for good. But once again, for Glorfindel, he was willing to try. He closed his eyes, and slowly exhaled, letting go of the tautness in his shoulders.

Glorfindel beamed.

“Much better,” he said. 

It felt so safe, being held like this. Gradually, Maeglin was put at his ease. He fell into step with Glorfindel. The music meant something to him now: the rhythm, the speed, the inflection. It had come alive.

“Now,” said Glorfindel, “Lead me. Again, not too forcefully-- or I will feel dominated, controlled. But not too timidly, or I won’t quite know when to follow. Think of your partner as a leaf, who moves in response to your breath.”

To illustrate this, he blew playfully into Maeglin’s face, scattering a strand of black hair. The faintest scent of wine tinged his breath.

They danced, Maeglin now leading. A new song had started, a lively one. The steps came more naturally now. He spent less effort counting the beats in his head, more time attuning himself to the movements of Glorfindel’s body, the subtle cues that he might be guiding either too forcefully or too timidly. 

He was finding his stride, he realized. This was easy; this was... exhilarating. He was breathing quickly. His heart was bounding, he was becoming just the slightest bit dizzy, happily so. He was learning the way Glorfindel tended to curve when he spun, the way he rocked his hip at the end of each step, the way he--

“Ouch--”

His knee had knocked hard against Glorfindel’s, and he stumbled. Without missing a beat, Glorfindel reached out and caught him before he fell. The movement was so graceful and strong that it removed all doubt in Maeglin’s mind that he was right to trust Glorfindel.

“Sorry!” said Glorfindel breathlessly, “I forgot I was supposed to be doing the woman’s steps. It feels so backwards.”

“Damn you, I’m blushing,” spluttered Maeglin as he regained his footing, “I think if I were the woman, that’s about when I would have fallen in love with you.”

Glorfindel laughed, taken aback. Maeglin was again thrilled to have been the one to make him laugh. He had a fleeting, selfish desire to be the only one who ever did so-- but he stopped himself. Such was the jealous thinking of the common daisy that wanted all of the sun’s light to itself. There was enough of Glorfindel’s laughter to go around. They resumed their dance, comfortably, in step, until the end of the song.

“Now,” said Glorfindel, “The most important part: the dance is ended. Shall you ask her for another? Or should you bow and let her go back to her friends, or to another suitor? Pay attention not only to her eyes, but to her hands: If she likes you, and wants to know you better, then her hands, no matter how softly they may hold you, will be reluctant to let you go.”

Glorfindel seemed to be smiling a little more shyly now. Maeglin regarded him with an aching fondness. An hour ago, he would not have believed it was possible to feel for anyone the way he felt right then. 

He had a sudden memory from the  _ Nirnaeth Arnoediad _ , that battle in which Glorfindel had proved his valor countless times over: of Glorfindel drawing his bowstring back toward his mud-streaked cheek, leading the House of the Golden Flower in a fight alongside the dwarves and mortals, whom he had never met before, and defending their scattered battalion as though they were his own brothers.

Maeglin felt-- with another rush of liking for Glorfindel-- he felt happy. There was a new lightness in his heart, a little tongue of flame inside him that must certainly be the color of Glorfindel’s hair. He was glad Glorfindel was here, glad to be dancing with someone in whom beauty welled from much deeper than face and body. Someone who lit up any room, and bettered the world simply by living within it.

_ … Then her hands, no matter how softly they may hold you, will be reluctant to let you go...  _

Was it his imagination, or were Glorfindel’s hands now holding him in just that way? It seemed too wonderful to be true. He realized he wanted, very badly, for Glorfindel to like him. 

For the third time that night, Maeglin decided to take a chance.

“Would you have another drink with me, Lord Glorfindel?” he asked.

ø

By the time they were clinking the glasses that held their fourth or fifth drinks, their conversation had turned toward the secrets of Gondolin. Each was convinced he knew the city best: Glorfindel had kept watch in every corner of Gondolin for longer than Maeglin had been alive, and claimed to know every crevice in the stone, every feature of the surrounding landscape. And he snorted when Maeglin mentioned the existence of a clearing upon a mountain ledge, not far away from the city, where plants of every kind bloomed, the likes of which were unlike any grown in Gondolin.

“I’m telling the  _ truth _ ,” Maeglin insisted, the sentences taking him a little longer to form than usual, “And I’ve returned many times hence. There is a waterfall there, overlooking a pool in a clearing of  _ mallorn _ trees.”

“If you can prove your claim,” said Glorfindel, equally tipsy, “I will run through that waterfall naked. And if you cannot, you must promise at the next ball, you will dance with no fewer than three ladies of my choosing, provided they are willing, of course.”

Maeglin finished his wine and peered at the bit of red left in the bottom of the glass, mulling over the terms of the bet through a haze of intoxication.

“Fine,” he said.

ø

Thus in the dead of night, after all the guests had gone, they quietly fetched their sleepy horses from the stables. The night watchmen let them through the North Gate at once: Maeglin, the king’s left hand; and Glorfindel, the most beloved of the Gondolindrim. They could have been shouting that they meant to lead Morgoth right to the North Gate, and the guards still might have let them go.

They rode under the stars through the fields of Tumladen, to the foot of the mountain, across a crevasse by a narrow way. The air was cool and redolent with the scent of newly sprouted wheat. The symphony of crickets had never seemed so melodious as when Glorfindel was here with him, Maeglin thought, and the starlight never as pure and bright as it was shining on the crown of Glorfindel’s head. They followed a trickling rivulet up to where it originated from the snowmelt, and higher still into the wood until finally they heard the roar of tumbling water. 

Maeglin relished the look of dismay on Glorfindel’s face when they came to the end of their path, beyond which lay the clearing, the waterfall, and the  _ mallorn _ trees, just as Maeglin had described.

And here they stood, Maeglin holding both horses by their bridles, looking mildly triumphant as he watched Glorfindel undress.

“You don’t have to-- ” 

“I always keep my word,” said Glorfindel solemnly, and threw his clothes in a pile onto the bank. He took a breath, filling his lungs with cold air, and then walked into the pool at the far end, up to the waist, directly into the pounding current of the waterfall.

When he emerged again, his golden hair was plastered smoothly over his face, and water streamed down from it. He waded back to the shallows, pushing it out of his eyes. Maeglin ran over to help him, holding out a large horse-blanket.

But Glorfindel did not take the blanket. Instead, he took Maeglin’s wrists in his wet hands.

“Maeglin, I’m just remembering,” he said, biting back a grin, “You were born on the  _ Nost _ , weren’t you? I’ve fulfilled my end of the bet, but the night’s still young. Actually, it’s Noldorin tradition for every elf to take a dive on his birthday. We say it’s a symbol of cleansing, of a new beginning.”

Maeglin’s eyes widened. He tried to free himself, but Glorfindel was stronger. 

“The merriest of birthdays to you, Maeglin, son of Aredhel.”

And he pulled Maeglin headfirst into himself. Maeglin’s curses stopped abruptly as he plunged into the freezing water, fine silk clothes and all.

Ø

Steam drifted above, grazing the wooden ceiling of the bathhouse. Glorfindel and Maeglin had left the freezing waters of the  _ mallorn _ pool behind in favor of the warmth of a salted aquamarine bath. They were the only two there at this hour. 

Maeglin studied the peachy tones of Glorfindel’s body beneath the rippling surface of the bath, and the outline of long legs, folded and resting on the platform. There was no part of Glorfindel’s nakedness he had not seen before in the barracks after morning drills. Turgon, too, insisted on training along with the soldiers every day at sunrise.  _ “A king who cannot fight alongside his men cannot lead,”  _ he had said. This training had served them both well during the  _ Nirnaeth _ . 

Maeglin frowned absently as he remembered that awful time.

“What are you thinking?” yawned Glorfindel, uncrossing his legs underwater and crossing them the other way. The warmth and steam had made him sleepy.

“ _ Nirnaeth _ ,” muttered Maeglin, “We’ve been at war together, haven’t we?”

“Indeed. I remember you fought very well, and bravely, despite your youth.”

Maeglin flicked his head sharply to the side.

“Pointless,” he said, “Senseless. There was nothing gained, everything lost. We couldn’t even save my uncle. Fingon, I mean.”

He lay back in the bath with his eyes closed, and remained this way, drifting smoothly back into his own mind. This was very comfortable.

“Maeglin,” said Glorfindel, “Might I ask you something?”

He did not move.

“Certainly.”

“Why did you choose to fight in the  _ Nirnaeth _ ? I know Turgon asked that you stay behind and rule Gondolin as regent, which would have been no less noble of you, and considerably more pleasant.”

Maeglin opened his eyes and sent him a searching glance, debating whether or not to answer. But if he trusted anyone now, it was Glorfindel.

“It’s going to sound ridiculous,” said Maeglin, “But I thought-- oh, I thought it would be my redemption. I thought if I killed enough damned orcs it would atone for my mother’s death, it would make things right between Turgon and me, and it would make me truly one of the Gondolindrim.”

“And did it?”

“No.”

Glorfindel had to smile at the dry humor of this answer.

“Could I ask you one more question, Maeglin?”

“You may as well.”

“What do you think would make you happy?”

Maeglin sat up so that his pale shoulders emerged glistening from the bath, and scoffed quietly.

“That is a very difficult question, Glorfindel. And a personal one.”

“You need not answer it. I apologize for my impertinence.”

“No, it’s all right. Well, I’ve often wished my mother alive again. But that’s not likely to happen. Or for Morgoth to be vanquished once and for all-- but so does everyone else. So what does that leave? Freedom. What I want more than anything is to wander the land freely as I please. To ride every day toward the horizon, to the sea, even to sail up into the skies. Gondolin is such a small sliver of the world, Glorfindel. It may be a foolish desire, but there are other lands, other lives than this.”

“Yes, Maeglin,” said Glorfindel, “I hear you well. It is not a foolish desire.”

They resumed bathing in the now slightly tepid water.

“And might I ask you a question, now, Glorfindel?”

“Anything.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Glorfindel pulled the length of his torso up out of the water, and unfolded his legs beneath him. Water cascaded down the panes of his body like the waterfall they just dove into. He stepped out of the pool, retrieved the cloth hanging on the ornate hook, and dried first his face, then his arms, then the creases of his thighs. He seemed to be buying himself time to think about his answer.

“Honestly,” he said eventually, “I have little reverence for what people call love. I don’t mean to sound cynical, but I mean, limerence and heartbreak, well, they lose their fire and bite eventually, just like every sunrise you see never fills you with as much wonder as your first. I was just a child at the time of my first love, younger than you were when you came to Gondolin, I think. The things I said to her, the things I felt-- There have been better things in my life than the way I felt back then. It’s getting late, Maeglin, and I’ve a report to finish for tomorrow. Good night! I’ve had the loveliest time.”

Glorfindel walked away singing softly, leaving Maeglin alone in the cooling bath, thinking it was hardly fair the way Glorfindel had dodged the question when he himself had answered so truthfully. And he found himself wishing, although the two of them had spent all evening together, that Glorfindel had stayed, if only for a bit longer. He hoped to Ilúvatar he had not ruined things.


	10. Knights and Knaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could it be that Idril, our heroine, isn't perfect after all?

Gilwen picked up the miniature marble horse and set it down four squares away.

“Checkmate.” 

From the other side of the chessboard, Idril furrowed her brows and scanned each of the few pieces still standing. Then she sighed.

“Indeed! You have bested me, Gilwen of Nan Elmoth.”

Gilwen began to return the pieces to their original configuration.

“You should have won that round. You could have sacrificed your knight for my queen.”

“Ah! I could never do such a thing to my poor knight. I hate to sacrifice the little pieces, Gilwen. What good is a king without his subjects?”

“And  _ that _ is why you shall never master chess. Your heart is too good for it.”

Idril only smiled and helped Gilwen reset the board. Each piece made a clinking noise as it took its rightful place among its fellows.

There was a knock on the door of Idril’s bedroom. Idril sprung to her feet and pulled it wide open. Behind the door stood redhaired Narfin, accompanied by a second woman: their friend Kemelin, who up until now has escaped mention. 

Kemelin’s hair was the color of river silt, tinted gold and brown like the forest floor. There was a wonderful fullness to her lips, a warmth to the beige of her skin. Like Narfin, she numbered among Idril’s many friends, and had been the blue gown in the circle of gowns that had surrounded Idril during the  _ Nost-na-Lothion _ ball when Tuor had held his hand out to her. Idril prized in her friends kindness, honesty, and slowness to anger over petty things-- qualities Kemelin lacked none of.

Kemelin and Narfin had just come in from the cold, still wearing their long woolen coats. Their cheeks were flushed red.

“Narfin, Kemelin!” said Idril happily, “Well met! Join us, please, before Gilwen can demolish me at chess once again.”

The two newcomers walked in, shed their coats, and sat upon satin cushions on the ground. It was almost five o’clock.

“What news?” said Gilwen. She poured them each a cup of mulled wine.

“Freezing outside,” said Kemelin, “Is it Spring now, or not?”

She gratefully accepted the cup Gilwen held out and wrapped her hands around, warming them.

“The community council went well, though,” said Narfin, “We shall convert three of the  _ Nirnaeth _ orphanages into schools, and one into a medical clinic.”

“Excellent!” cried Gilwen. 

The  _ Nirnaeth _ orphans had grown up, and emptied the orphanage buildings as they did. She herself had pushed for a community infirmary for those living in the Northwest quarter of Gondolin. 

“I knew you would be pleased, Gilwen.”

“Tiromer and I shall make arrangements to staff it as soon as it is ready.”

“Lovely,” said Kemelin, “Narfin and I will procure the necessary furnishings. A woman’s work is never done. But enough talk of business-- shall we play Knights and Knaves?”

There were enthusiastic murmurs from all around and Idril rummaged around for a deck of cards. 

“I don’t know the rules to--” began Gilwen, but Idril interrupted.

“We’ll teach you!” she said at once, “It is an easy enough game to learn. You see, two of us shall be ‘knaves’ and two shall be ‘knights’. But none shall know the role of any of the others. The objective of each player is to deduce who is an enemy, and who is an ally. It requires the sharpest of logic, but is impossible to win without charisma and a keen judgement of character. Let us begin.”

She dealt the cards, four each, and they began to go around.

Idril let Gilwen and Kemelin win the first round, but thereafter, she trounced them all, over and over again. Gilwen was astonished at Idril’s utter mercilessness, her suddenly unveiled knack for subtle deception. During the fifth round, she executed a spectacular, devastating betrayal of Narfin which left the latter sobbing into Gilwen’s shoulder. She was horrified with remorse.

“Oh Narfin, I didn't mean it, Narfin, I am sorry. I was absorbed in the game. Please stop crying-- perhaps we should stop playing.”

“It’s all right,” sniffed Narfin, “All is fair in Knights and Knaves. I’m just being a baby.”

She wiped her eyes resolutely and dealt the cards for another round. 

Halfway through the game, Gilwen noticed Kemelin smirking behind her fanned cards.

“What are you grinning about?” asked Gilwen. Kemelin’s smirk only broadened.

“Oh, nothing at all,” said she, “I was just recalling how prettily our little Narfin danced with Lord Ecthelion the night of the  _ Nost-na-Lothion _ ball.”

Narfin blushed until her face was the same color as her hair.

“Hold your tongue, Kemelin,” she mumbled. 

The other three exchanged delighted looks. They set the cards on the table, Knights and Knaves forgotten.

Idril put her hands to her mouth and giggled like a young girl.

“It is a smart match,” she said, “He is quite handsome.”

“The two of you, you left together!” said Gilwen with glee, “I remember looking for you and noticing the both of you gone.”

Kemelin squealed as Narfin buried her face in her arms.

“Did the two of you--”

“No! No, of course not, I-- well, he--”

They stared her down like hawks. Narfin sighed.

“He-- Lord Ecthelion had offered to escort me home. He walked with me into the courtyard, and saw I was shivering. He lent me his cloak. And we stopped by the fountain. He-- he played his lute for me.”

Gilwen’s eyes widened.

“He played his  _ lute _ ?”

“Yes, he took his lute from beneath his cloak and--

Narfin flushed scarlet once again as she realized Gilwen’s meaning.

“Oh, you scoundrel!”

She flung a cushion at Gilwen’s head, which she barely ducked, as Idril and Kemelin collapsed in laughter.

“Tell us, what song did he play for you, fair Narfin?”

Narfin’s blush had receded down to a rosy glow, and in spite of herself she smiled as she remembered that night. 

“A melody of his own creation. It was ‘Song with No Name’, he told me when I asked, for he had not yet thought of a name. A most beautiful tune. I replied that it suited the night, that it was an honor to hear a ‘Song with No Name,’ and I would cherish it forever. Then he gave me the most curious look. He said perhaps, then, it was time to name the song after all: ‘With Narfin on the First of Spring.’”

Her eyes misted over as she leaned back into the memory. Idril, Gilwen and Kemelin looked around at one another, sharing in their bewilderment at the change in their friend.

“Poor dear Narfin, you’ve fallen in love.”

“All right, and perhaps I have. But enough of this--”

And here she seemed to drop her reverie, staring pointedly at Idril.

“You are a hypocrite!”

“What? I?” said Idril.

“Yourself and Tuor! Why, we all saw you that night, making him the envy of every man in Gondolin.”

It was Idril’s turn to blush as her friends turned on her.

“A mortal man, Idril!”

“The son of Huor!”

“What does your father think?”

“What did he say to you that night as you were dancing?”

“Has he sent you word?”

At this last question, a shy, happy smile crept onto Idril’s beautiful face.

“He has! A short letter, thanking me for the dance, and a white rose, by way of his hunting-falcon. I shall see him soon. What of it? Tomorrow evening.”

Kemelin mocked swooning into Gilwen’s arms, and it was Narfin’s turn to burst out laughing.

“Idril Celebrindal, the diamond of Gondolin, the High Princess of the Noldor, in the arms of an  _ Atani _ vagabond.”

“All of you are terrible.  _ Terrible _ . I will say nothing more of it!”

ø

Later that night, after Kemelin and Narfin had retired home, Idril and Gilwen donned gray cloaks. They slipped out of the palace through the side door into the gathering dark. The stars hung upon the vast dome of sky over the rooftops. Idril’s silver hair glowed, seemingly with a light of its own. She held out her arm.

Together, the two women walked across the palace courtyard.

“Is all well, Idril?” asked Gilwen.

Idril exhaled. A small trail of vapor left her lips.

“I am well,” she replied, “But my spirit is restless. Something stirs in the heart of Gondolin. I can feel it.”

“What can it be?”

“I know not. Tuor claims to bring a prophecy from Ulmo. From the rumors, it is not a happy one.”

Gilwen raised her eyebrows.

“A prophecy? Has such a thing ever happened? Do you trust this mortal, Idril?”

“I trust him completely, Gilwen. Ecthelion says he spoke in the tongue of the Ainur at the Seven Gates. And I spoke with him for a long while, as you know. His heart is as true as any I have seen.”

Gilwen fell silent, pondering. Was terrible harm to befall Gondolin? She could not imagine so, not after so many years of inviolate security. But kingdoms fell in time, she knew, and calamity befell those who least expected it. It would be folly to ignore such a warning.

“What is to be done?”

“I know not,” said Idril again, “In a fortnight, Papa will hold a Council, with the heads of the Twelve Houses, Tuor and myself. We shall discuss what must be done now, and in the future.”

“And what do you think, Idril?”

Idril did not look at Gilwen although she knew she had heard. She appeared to be arranging her thoughts carefully. Their soft footfalls echoed on the paving stones. 

“We cannot win against the forces of Morgoth,” said Idril, “Ever since the Siege of Angband broke, his power has been insurmountable. If we are to save our kind, our best hope shall be to flee the city.”

“Leave Gondolin!”

“Indeed. The thought of leaving my home pains me as well. Yet we have seen the combined might of elves and men crumple at his feet. You should know better than I that this is chess, Gilwen. It would be folly to stand complacent as Morgoth discovers our weaknesses, our secrets, all in a matter of time. Above all, we must survive.”

Gilwen nodded grimly. It was chess, after all. If the castle must fall to save the king, then fall it would.

Idril went on, “But what ultimately we shall do, my father, and the lords of Gondolin, must decide.”

Gilwen folded her arms and sent Idril an incredulous stare.

“The lords!” she snorted, “Are you not the King’s daughter? You must make your position known, and defend it if you believe it to be true!”

“Peace, Gilwen,” said Idril, with a shake of her silver head, “A woman’s power is bounded by what men will permit her to do. Such has it ever been.”

“This is true,” replied Gilwen, “But should not be. Ilúvatar put us in the world as their equals, and not their servants.”

But Idril only smiled, and turned her face skyward.

“What would you have me do? I cannot change the world, Gilwen. Perhaps a day will come when all of us walk side by side in Arda, and the word of a woman is heeded even if it be against a man’s. But we do what we must, what we can, for the time being.”

“If anyone can change the world, Idril,” said Gilwen softly, “It is you.”

They walked on, all the way to the far end of the courtyard, where the gurgling of the fountains played harmony to the crickets. From far away, a nightingale crooned.

“Gilwen,” said Idril, “I heard the most curious story the other day.”

“What story was this?”

“In fact, a story about you. Of your heroics with Oromen’s young son. Is it true?”

“Ah! I know of what you speak. Yes, it was very lucky.”  
“So it is true!” exclaimed Idril, “They say the child was near death: found weak and raving in a garden. That he would have perished, despite the efforts of every healer in the palace, including Khildur, and Tiromer, and Oromen, the boy’s own father. And they say you appeared out of nowhere, tipped a vial into his mouth, and he opened his eyes, completely cured. A miracle!”

“It was no miracle,” said Gilwen, “The child’s pupils were the size of marbles, and he was vomiting. I saw in an instant he had eaten yellow oleander from the garden, whose flower we call foxglove. So I ran to gather nightshade, and gave him just the right amount to reverse the effects of the oleander.”

“Nightshade!” said Idril, “Deadly nightshade, a poison!”

“A poison,” agreed Gilwen, “But an antidote for oleander. Such is the way of poisons. I gave this to him, and a little sugared water. He awoke, and opened his fist, and sure enough, there lay the offending flower in his palm.”

“Incredible,” said Idril, “How on earth could you have known?”

Gilwen hesitated. She had been afraid of this very question.

“An old tome I read,” she lied. But Idril knew her too well. As though it were another game of Knights and Knaves, she sniffed out Gilwen’s falsehood.

“ _ Tell me the truth _ , Gilwen!”

Gilwen looked away.

“Some years ago,” said Gilwen, “Maeglin brought me a wounded mole. He had found it in the mountains, ravaged by an eagle. He wrapped up the animal and took it into the city, and laid it on my study table. A pregnant female, very near death. Her babies were almost full grown.”

“I told him I could not save it, and so he left. Sure enough, the animal died. Carefully, I slit open belly and womb, and freed the little moles from the amnions. In secret, I raised them on goat’s milk and honey.”

“It was then I became engaged in a conversation with Khildur, Oromen and Tiromer, the healers. They said if only they had subjects, they could deduce the nature of all the poisons and antidotes in all of Arda, and no elf should ever die as Lady Aredhel did, of some unknown substance on the tip of a blade.”

“The subjects need not be human, I realized. In the next few months, I crossed the grown moles with each other, brother with sister, father with daughter, until I had dozens of them in my study to work with. I fed them plants until they sickened, and when they did, I noted whether they seized, or frothed at the mouth, or if their pupils bloomed. If they died, then I burned them and noted this too. If two poisons were opposites, then I tried one as the antidote for the other.”

“It was thus I discovered the relationship between yellow oleander and nightshade. And several more, and herbs for healing wounds, and curing other ailments as well. Just last week, it saved the life of Oromen’s son.”

She spoke more and more slowly as she finished these last sentences, noticing uncomfortably the growing horror on Idril’s face. Gilwen felt like she was justifying herself, defending her case. She swallowed and braced herself for Idril’s wrath.

She was not disappointed. Idril stood still on the path, her mouth quivering.

“That is  _ detestable _ , Gilwen. How could you do such a thing?!”

Gilwen shrank back like a beaten dog. She felt exactly as she did that day years ago in the tearoom, an insignificant handmaiden preparing for punishment.

“There are so many I can save, Idril,” she pleaded, “So many I could free from death with the knowledge I have found.”

“ _ At what cost, Gilwen?” _ shouted Idril, “Not all can be saved!”

“But I can try!” Gilwen cried, just as emphatically.

The two stood face to face, glaring at one another.

“It’s monstrous, this thing,” spat Idril, “No better than what Morgoth does in Angband.”

“You’re spoiled!” snapped Gilwen, “You think you can stand over people with a crown and scepter, and judge all things as good or evil? You think there are villains and heroes in our world like there are in one of your children’s tales? You’ve lived in a damned palace your entire life, you’ve never wanted for anything. You didn’t see them die after the  _ Nirnaeth _ . You didn’t see them festering with their infections, bleeding to death, crying out in pain. There is nothing I would not have done to save them. Nothing!”

“You seek to play the role of the Valar,” said Idril, “We elves must never seek to do so. Remember the Lord Fëanor and his ruin: the terrible oath he swore with his sons, the cause of all the strife in our age.”

“And why should we not play Valar?” asked Gilwen, “They have left us with suffering and death, for they blundered in the making of the world. Why should we not play the Valar, if there are lives to be saved?”

“You will stop these experiments,” hissed Idril. The frigid power in her voice could have rivalled Turgon’s.

“You will free the poor creatures in your study. And you will never repeat them again. This I order on your life.”

Gilwen felt vile. Idril’s words had made her insides feel suddenly filthy, deplorable. How very different she and Idril were. How many times had she wished to live her friend’s life? To be a thing of beauty, a beacon of goodness, beloved far and wide by the Noldor? 

But she was only Gilwen of Nan Elmoth. Idril had her loveliness, her charisma, her inexorable greatness. And what did she, Gilwen, have? The most precious thing she owned was her cleverness, her hard-won knowledge. For some reason, Aredhel’s words from long ago came to her now:  _ Alas, we do not truly own a thing unless it cannot be taken away _ .

Despite her fine clothes and company, she was nothing more than a handmaiden who had overstepped her station. A wretched knave who would be nothing without Idril.

Yet she loved Idril as a sister, felt no greater honor than to be her confidante and her friend. And now, this very friend’s words knifed into her chest.

What good was her precious wit if Idril detested her? What was she if Idril did not believe in her? She could feel hot tears welling up in her eyes.

“Forgive me,” she said, “I never meant to hurt you, never wanted to do anything you found detestable. I only ever wanted to cure disease, to end suffering.”

“Gilwen, you fed your own pride, your own lust for knowledge, with the blood of defenseless animals.”

“Never again will I harm a living being for the sake of knowledge, Lady. I swear it by Ilúvatar.”

Idril turned her back on Gilwen.

“I told you long ago to call me by my name and not by titles. I speak now as your friend, Gilwen, not your master. I forgive you, but it is too high a cost. No innocent being should suffer for the sake of the greater good.”

They had arrived at the steps of the library. Idril tarried, and turned to Gilwen once more as she pushed the door open. Night had fallen completely now.

“I’ve just been thinking,” she said, “In a way you’re right, I suppose. I believe in good, and I believe in wickedness. And a person must either be good, or wicked. Ilúvatar is good, and Morgoth wicked. Aredhel was good, and Eöl wicked. Though all of us are flawed, it is our decisions that decide which we are. Do not cry any more. Your intentions were good, but your means were wicked. And that is no better than having wicked intentions. But you see the error in your ways now, and you will amend them.”

“If it is your wish, Idril, then I shall follow it for ever.”

“Then you are good in my eyes, my friend.”

She held out her arms. Gilwen leaned into them, laid her head against Idril’s chest. Her straight black hair disappeared into the dark fabric of her companion’s cloak. Through it she felt the rise and fall of breath, heard the steady beating of Idril’s heart.

ø

They read their books together, in the library lit softly by eggshell lamps. Idril put her beautiful head on Gilwen’s shoulder, her legs curled up beneath her. 

“Gilwen,” said Idril, “I meant to ask you: what do you think of Tuor?”

Gilwen looked up.

“He is a mortal man--”

Idril closed her book and gently slapped Gilwen on the thigh with it.

“Out of everyone in Gondolin, you should be the last to chide me for breaking tradition--”

“Let me finish. I would have said, he is a mortal man, but a good one. A man who has seen all the world. If you believe him to be noble of character, then so he must be, for there is no greater auger of goodness than you, Celebrindal. Trust what your heart tells you, for I always will.”


	11. Children of the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuor's prophecy is discussed at the Council of Turgon, to bitter divides in opinion amongst the participants. Maeglin and Idril clash. Gilwen sees in Maeglin the boy she once knew.

_ “Doom comes to Gondolin. The Dark One sees all as Twilight falls in the North. Fountains rain blood upon the Noldor. The ground opens; the earth trembles. The flames devour. The banners shroud the ruin. Doom comes to Gondolin.” _

The walls reverberated with the force of Tuor’s voice reciting Ulmo’s prophecy. Grimly, Turgon translated the prophecy to the company, first in Sindarin, then in the Common Tongue.

The Council were seated upon engraved chairs draped in blue. A great circular slab of marble rising from the ground formed the central table. 

Turgon sat farthest from the door, Idril at his right hand. Maeglin sat to his left, representing also the house he led, the House of the Mole. The heads of the other eleven Houses of Gondolin were present also: Glorfindel, of the House of the Golden flower; Ecthelion, of the House of the Fountain. Duilin, Salgant, Galdor, Egalmoth, Penlod and Rog were the names of the rest. Voronwë, present also, sat next to Tuor. 

A storm of murmuring followed the silence in the wake of the prophecy’s utterance. The lords looked around at each other uncertainly, repeating parts of the prophecy and musing over what their significance might be.

Ecthelion was the first to address the Council.

“Ulmo’s warning is quite clear,” he said, “The whereabouts of Gondolin will be found by Morgoth, and the city will fall at his hands.”

“But when, and by what means?” asked Duilin, Lord of the House of the Swallow, “ _ ‘When Twilight falls in the North.’  _ Does not twilight fall each day?”

“Prophecies are ever nonsensical,” huffed Salgant, of the House of the Harp, “ _ ‘Twilight’ _ could mean a particularly dark year, or some sort of event we haven’t the means to foresee. There is no telling when the Fall shall actually come to pass.”

“Regardless, it is surely imminent,” said gray-eyed Voronwë. Somehow each of his words was sorrowful, even in his regular speech, “For no other reason would Ulmo seek to warn us with such urgency.”

Lord Rog slammed his hand on the table. It rang impressively despite being made of solid stone.

“Let them come then,” he said, “Let the filth of Morgoth come. Our watch is kept all hours, night and day. From all directions we observe each pass through the Encircling Mountains. We will shoot them down from our towers before they so much as near the Gates.”

Turgon inclined his head.

“Indeed. It shall not be so easy to bring Gondolin to its knees.”

“No city is indestructible, Papa,” said Idril, “Did Nargothrond not fall last year? Mighty Nargothrond, the subterranean fortress of Finrod Felagund and his brother Orodreth. Rent apart in mere days by the dragon Glaurung and the orcs that went with him.”

When Idril spoke Glaurung’s name, a bitter chill swept through the room. Each of the men present today, excepting Tuor, had witnessed firsthand the terrible might of Morgoth’s red dragon at the  _ Nirnaeth Arnoediad _ as he consumed entire fields with his scorching breath, leveled towers with a stroke of his iron tail. 

“Orodreth was a fool to wage war openly on Morgoth,” said Turgon, “None among the Noldor shall betray the whereabouts of Gondolin so.”

“What proof have you that you speak the word of Ulmo?” came a voice from next to Turgon. 

All turned to see Maeglin’s eyes gleaming at Tuor with mistrust.

“He came bearing King Turgon’s arms from Nevrast!” Ecthelion retorted, in his friend Tuor’s defense, “He spoke in the tongue of the Ainur. Few among the Eldar understand it, let alone a mortal man!”

“And yet some  _ do _ understand it, Lord Ecthelion,” said Maeglin, “Or we would not be sitting here discussing its meaning. An old shield from Nevrast and a few choice words in a high tongue do not constitute ironclad truth in my estimation. Are you prepared to gamble our centuries-long peace on the back of this so-called ‘prophecy’?”

Idril glared at her cousin as another storm of dissent rippled across the room.

“What reason have I to deceive you?” asked Tuor, his anger rising in spite of himself, “For what reason would I travel all winter to Gondolin’s gates, risking death in the ravine Orfalch Echor, to deliver a falsehood?”

“For instance,” replied Maeglin, malice now rampant in his voice, “For instance, one loyal to Morgoth might seek to draw the elves out of Gondolin into the open, where our hosts would be vulnerable to assault. Furthermore, conceivably Morgoth in his unfathomable power and endless devices could succeed in deceiving a mortal man into  _ believing _ he spoke to Ulmo, for the same purpose.”

“Maeglin!” said Turgon sharply, “You have gone too far. I trust Tuor absolutely, and I owe to his father my own life. You will apologize at once.”

Maeglin bowed his head reluctantly.

“Forgive me.”

But his words had cast fear and doubt into the hearts of the Council. The question of how to respond to such a prophecy became all the more troublesome.

“What have you to say, Lord Glorfindel?” asked Turgon, turning toward our friend, the golden-haired lord who had remained silent thus far. Glorfindel sat forward calmly and rested his elbows on the tabletop, entwining his long fingers.

“Prophecy or no,” said Glorfindel, “I believe, for the time being, it is safest for the Gondolindrim to remain in Gondolin. We have our homes here, and there is no place for us to go. Nargothrond is no more. Would we flee to Doriath? Such a journey is treacherous, and how could they keep us? We number nearly a hundred thousand. I, too, trust Tuor’s intentions, but I confess I do not see another solution to our predicament, at the present.”

Glorfindel’s words acted as a balm on the agitation of the assembled elves. The fearful silence gave way to mutters of agreement.

“Glorfindel is right, Papa,” said Idril, “It is imprudent to flee the city as we are, without preparations. But prepare we must, for we know not when Morgoth may strike. We must be able to leave Gondolin safely at a moment’s notice.”

Tuor, who had been cowed by Maeglin’s sudden attack, seemed to regain his courage when Idril spoke.

“I second this, King Turgon. Ensuring the safety of the people of Gondolin was the will of Ulmo. I pledge to aid this endeavor in any way I can.”

“And I!” said Glorfindel and Ecthelion simultaneously.

“Ecthelion and I shall double the number of guards on watch,” said Glorfindel.

They all looked toward Turgon, who sat as a statue with his brow drawn.

“So be it,” said the king, “Our watch will be doubled, and an emergency provision will be maintained.”

“And a secret means of escape, my King?” said Tuor, a little too boldly.

A line shifted in the king’s jaw.

“At the present, Tuor,” said Turgon with cold conviction, “We need not yet resort to tunneling out of Gondolin like sewer rats. If they come, we will fight them with our full strength, as men of the Noldor.”

“Papa--”

“Enough, Idril. I have decided. Maeglin, I trust you shall see to it the armory will be stocked to match the increased guard?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Has anyone more to say to the Council at the present?”

Silence.

“Then let us vote to adjourn for the time being.”

Ø

“Maeglin!”

The black-haired head did not turn. Maeglin stormed down the corridor, a furious energy in his step. Idril chased after him. Her bare feet skipped silently over the marble tiles.

“Maeglin!” shouted Idril, “I must speak with you!”

This time, Maeglin stopped dead in his tracks. Idril skidded and stumbled, narrowly avoiding a collision. He pivoted. His face was now inches from hers. 

“To what do I owe the honor?”

“Maeglin,” repeated Idril, “A few moments of your time is all I ask.” 

Her eyes were round. 

Maeglin chewed on his lower lip and regarded her with his usual piercing stare. 

“Very well,” he said, “Let us speak in the tearoom.”

Ø

The tearoom looked oddly empty without its familiar guests or servants. Idril took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs, turning her seat so her legs ran tangent to the round table. Maeglin imitated her, pulling his own chair back to leave a comfortable distance between them. He leaned back expectantly, indicating she was to speak first. But the wall between them was as tall as Gondolin’s, Idril knew by the thinness of the line in which his lips were drawn.

She reached falteringly toward the hands folded in his lap, as though trying not to spook a cornered animal. Maeglin did not look at her, but allowed her to lift his right hand in both of hers, closed his eyes a brief instant as she turned it palm-upward and unfurled his fingers. The skin there was toughened and calloused from the smithy, the nails cut cruelly short just as she remembered them.

“You’ve hurt yourself,” she noted, indicating a raw patch over the base of his thumb.

“So I have,” said Maeglin, “An apprentice burned me accidentally, last week at the forge. He was trying to hand me a tool.”

“ _ Ai Elentári! _ How foolish of him.”

Maeglin shrugged, still avoiding her eyes.

“He knew no better. It was my fault, for neglecting to teach him.”

“You are a good head-smith, Maeglin. Thénarion would be proud of you.”

The head-smith who had taken Maeglin in, who had taught him at the fire of the royal forge, had perished in the  _ Nirnaeth _ . When Idril invoked his name, the corner of his mouth curved upward, and his expression softened.

“Thank you, Idril. He was a good man, and I liked him a great deal.”

Idril smiled back at him. She pressed her fingers against his hand, fondled it until he no longer flinched in response to her touch, then released it. 

“Well, what is this matter we must discuss?” said Maeglin.

“The prophecy, Maeglin. You spoke against Tuor, though it be against the good of Gondolin. You begrudge him, for reasons of your own. You must know in your heart it isn’t right.”

Maeglin sighed.

“You are correct that I have no great love for Tuor, son of Huor,” he said, “But it matters not. I would speak against him all the same if he were my friend. He wishes for us to turn our backs on Gondolin, Idril. Everything your father has built. Everything  _ you and I _ have done. Do you not remember the treacherous days after the  _ Nirnaeth _ ? How you put your hands into the chaos and battled to pull prosperity from the ruin? It has taken years, Idril. Years, for our lives to return to a semblance of normalcy. What could a man, not three decades old, understand what we have lived through?”

“He was born during that Year of Mourning, Maeglin. Born after his father died in that same  _ Nirnaeth _ . He was formed by the aftermath, just as we were.”

The two cousins sat looking at one another. They had not talked like this, face to face, since they were both quite a few years younger: not since they had collaborated to house and train the orphans, ruling Gondolin in Turgon’s stead. Always they walked with the king between them, separate from each others like mountains by a canyon. Though they may have been friends in a different life, Maeglin’s love for Idril was too strange, too vile, for this one. And here they were, pulled together again as the dark forces of the world threatened once more to rend their lives apart.

Maeglin parted his lips, as though to remark upon this, but closed them again, and said nothing. 

“Say what you must, Maeglin, son of Aredhel.”

And the voice that obeyed her was soft and sad, like the last line of a tragic play: “Idril, I love you.”

The pronouncement was so sudden, so bizarre, that Idril could not restrain the tears of pity that rushed to her eyes.

“I know.”

He reached out, perhaps to touch her arm, or to catch her tears. But she pulled away, and stood from her chair.

“Maeglin, if you love me-- if you truly love me-- then promise me this: that you will speak with your mind, and not with your heart, on the matters of Gondolin. That you will put its people before the tangled affair of you and me. Papa trusts you. He will listen to you. Do not take that trust lightly.”

Maeglin rose now as well, sensing their meeting was over. Saying nothing, he bowed, and departed.

ø

Gilwen rapped her knuckles against the dark oak. When there was no answer, she turned the handle and opened the door, stepping into Maeglin’s bedchamber. Her eyes squared in on him, sitting at the edge of a mattress, holding a garment smudged with rosettes of his blood.

_ “What in Nienna’s name are you doing?” _

Her eyes found the half-empty bottle of spirits, the needle, his swaying comportment. She stuttered, for the moment too furious to speak.

“Maeglin, you-- are-- a--  _ fucking idiot _ .”

“Go away, Gilly.”

“Have you lost your mind? Give me that--”

She wrenched the fabric from his grasp and saw that he had been trying to mend a collar. The first few stitches were widely spaced but passable, but an erratic scar of bizarre needlework followed. Gilwen groaned through her teeth, half in exasperation and half in pity. She tossed it aside, pulled him up by both wrists, and dragged him to the washbasin. 

She plunged his hands into the water. As she cleansed them, he retched, and she barely caught his chin in time to direct the stream of vomit into the basin.

“Leave me, Gilly. You are my wet nurse no longer.”

_ Though it seems you are in need of one _ , thought Gilwen.

He walked back to his bed and slumped facedown on it. Wordlessly Gilwen stood by the dirtied basin and looked around the room. 

From her years as a servant, Gilwen was a good reader of rooms. Maeglin’s was spare and clean, but untidy. His belongings were few, tossed into a closet three sizes too big. Leather shoes, well-made, stood by the door, meant for surprisingly large feet. There were a few mining maps tacked on the far wall, a harp gathering dust in the corner. A bronze helm adorned the windowsill, the first one he had ever forged with Thénarion. Aside from this there were no sentimental objects: no letters, no portraits, no games or trinkets. 

The only object of note, kept pristine, was the drafting table in the corner. Here there was a neat stack of drawings, annotated in a tiny hand, a few rocks arranged in a pewter grid, and some sharp quills. Here was an elf who resided largely within his own mind, only seldom emerging to consider the world beyond.

She ran the water until the basin was clear, then filled a crystal cup with it. She walked to where he lay prone, half off his bed. He sat up obediently and accepted it, almost out of habit.

“You have come to reproach me for speaking against Tuor, I presume,” he said, “You need not bother. Idril has told me so already.”

“No, Maeglin,” said Gilwen, “In fact, I’ve come to speak with you about Idril.”

Maeglin raised his eyebrows at her over his cup.

“What of her?”

“That your feelings for her--”

Maeglin’s eyes flashed.

“Are no more than lust and pride? That I love a mirage, a shadow, a fantasy, concocted of my own twisted ideals, and not a living woman?”

“Maeglin--”

“That she is my first cousin and my love is mere perversion, borne of my pathologic isolation? Is that what you have come to say of Idril and me, Gilly? You will not be the first.”

“I never--”

“Oh, don’t you think I know all of that! Don’t you know I would give anything never to have laid eyes on her?” 

“I just meant--”

“I knew from the first minute we met that nothing could ever be. I knew it before she spoke a word. If I must hear one more time--”

“ _ No _ , Maeglin!” she cried, and Maeglin stopped midway through his speech at the rising tone of her voice, “I don’t give a damn whether you truly love her or not. But it’s hurting you too much! I’m afraid. I’m afraid your love for her will kill you and I won’t be able to stop it. I can’t bear to watch in silence any longer. I can’t!”

“You look like you’re about to cry,” said Maeglin sheepishly, his next sentence forgotten.

Gilwen sniffed deeply and wiped her face on his sleeve.

“Do you love me at all, Maeglin? After all we’ve been through together?”

“Gilly...” 

He was disquieted by her tears, but unmoved. She hated the look of perplexed indifference on his face, hated that she could not reach him.

“Just once, Maeglin, could you please stop shutting the door?”

Maeglin made a gawkish movement toward her, meaning to embrace her but thinking better of it. Instead he patted her hesitantly on the back.

“I apologize for upsetting you,” he said, “I know what you ask of me, and I cannot give it. But thank you, Gilly. For your concern.”

She glared at him with reddened eyes.

“You truly are an idiot.”

“So I am.”

Gilwen sighed and wrapped her arms around herself.

“I loved you once, you know. Many years ago, while I was still a servant. Because I could never understand you, I fell in love with you instead.”

“And now?” 

“Does it matter?”

Maeglin smiled but did not reply. He passed her the half-empty spirit bottle. She took two gulps and set it down without making a face.

“Gilly, why do you bother with me?”

“I know not. It is a thankless task.”

Absently, she gathered his hair in her hands, sweeping it over his shoulders, over his back. It was even straighter than her own. She took the brush from the nightstand and began to run it over the knots.

“Do you remember when you were ten,” she said, “When I let you chase the  _ garsnuffs _ into the wood?”

“I do,” said Maeglin with a smile, “I lost the path and wandered into the dark.”

“And I screamed after you, mad with worry--”

“Did you? I never heard.”

“The next thing I knew, you came running out back the way you came, a half-grown spider giving chase--”

“He had pounced on the  _ garsnuff _ I was chasing, almost bit my arm off--”

“Your little cloak became ensnared on a branch as you ran.”

“And you cut it from my shoulders with your knife! Ah, Gilly, if you hadn’t done so we never would have been caught. That night my mother asked me where my nice cloak was, the one you had made for me. Nothing ever escaped her.”

“And you blurted your confession like the hapless young fool you were.”

“I was only ten! Oh, how my mother flew in a rage at the both of us--”

“Which was entirely unfair. It was no fault of mine. As I recall, you pointed your fat little finger straight at me, claiming I had let you go...”

“And when my father came home, she told him the whole story, and he merely shrugged and said it was healthy for a young boy to taste danger, that she was too soft with me.”

Maeglin’s grin faded.

“The poor woman, the grief I brought upon her. I will never forgive myself.”

Gilwen suspended her brushing of Maeglin’s hair. She had run the bristles over it endlessly, to the point where it now shone like black glass.

“Aredhel never thought of it that way.”

“Can you imagine, Gilly, if she could see me now? Fleeing to the mines every fortnight, in love with my own cousin, pariah of my uncle’s court propped up only by his goodwill? What would she say, if she knew  _ this _ is what became of her sacrifice? I am worth--”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Gilwen sternly, “Don’t measure yourself--”

“I’m not enough,” said Maeglin bitterly, “All my mother ever spoke of was Gondolin. No matter what I did, I served only to remind her of all she had lost. She was robbed of her family and her palace, and in return, all she had was me. How could I ever be enough?”

Gilwen sighed. She moved closer to Maeglin and put her hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t understand, Maeglin,” said Gilwen, “Your mother loved you more than you can imagine, more than all the world could contain. When she first felt your quickening, she put my hands on her belly. She rejoiced for the child she would have, and the man you might become, even as your tiny feet fluttered within her womb. 

When you grew old enough to play alone in the garden she watched you always from the window, worried any harm should befall you.

And when your father sent you into the woods hunting, she retreated into her bedchamber to hide her terrified weeping. ‘I know he must learn to fight,’ she said, ‘And I hate to be such a fool over it all. But what am I to do if my boy is hurt? How am I to survive without my only son?’ 

Even if she never found the words to tell you, Maeglin, I know she would have sold all of Gondolin and all the world to keep you safe. It was her folly never to tell you so.”

Maeglin looked long and hard into Gilwen’s eyes, desperate to find more answers. Then he gave a small but decisive nod, indicating that he believed her.

“Maeglin,” said Gilly, spotting the instrument in the corner, “Your mother always did love to hear you play your harp.”

Maeglin rose and walked over slowly to where the old wooden instrument lay. He picked it up and shook it. A flurry of dust arose and caught the light streaming in from the window, glittering as it fell.

He set the harp on the rug and sat astride it. He lifted his hands to the strings and began to pluck them. The notes rang through the room, singly at first, followed by melodies, and chords. Every so often he hit a sour note or muted a string by mistake, and then he started over, his eyes closed, searching with his fingers for the song he had abandoned for so long. 

When Gilwen left him, he was still playing.


	12. Celebrindal's Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Idril is married

The shadow of Morgoth lingered over Gondolin, a persistent dread in the backs of their minds. But it was hard to stay so gloomy when the city, if anything, grew all the more in its prosperity. Seven years unfurled following the coming of Tuor, seven years Idril could swear were unusually sunny, bright and joyful. Her eyes still closed when she awoke on her wedding today, she played these years back to herself like a song.

There had been that summer night she lay awake, too filled with the beauty of it all to sleep. In the garden she found Tuor half-sitting on the stone bench, the moon on the white shirt he wore, his lean forearms supporting him at his sides. How she startled him and he grinned at her, and Idril felt giddy freedom of knowing they were alone.

How she had taken his hand and they walked, whispering like children, past the murals of elven-kings, battles long past, landscapes of Valinor. Tuor stood there against the backdrop of dead elven-kings; how wonderfully alive was his young lean-wolf look next to their serene, painted faces. 

How she walked toward him slowly, delighting in his hunger, the quickness of his breath as she drew near, the heat that bloomed in her flesh when he touched her. She kissed him and drew forth a little whimpering moan.

They courted in secret at first, and she saw him only on those occasions he had reasons to visit the palace-- once not for weeks. When she saw him on the front steps, she had come running down barefoot and leapt to embrace him, caring little who saw. Not even her Papa, whom they say went pale at the sight.

And how her Papa had then bid her follow him when they were alone again, and her heart sank at his solemn tone. Yet they went not to his study, but into the secret garden by a hidden stair: the garden of lilies.

Papa weeping as he told her he had planted a lily there with his own hands, every time he grieved for Idril’s mother; and with each he made a promise to his Elenwë: he would show mercy to the wretched and strength in despair; he would not grow too prideful; he would be both mother and father to Idril and protect her always from harm. 

And now his days without Elenwë outnumbered the days with her. What a beautiful agony she had left behind. In and out of his life she had passed, a bird flying past his window, leaving him forever changed. Be careful whom you let into your heart, my Idril, mortal man or elf, for they may never leave when they depart. You have my trust.

Tuor kneeling before the king, confessing all his love, bracing himself for Turgon’s wrath. But how her Papa had taken Tuor by the elbows and pulled him from the ground, saying that King Thingol may have demanded a Silmaril from Beren as the price for Lúthien’s hand, but King Turgon would not bring more strife into the world, more jealousy and pain. 

Therefore he, Turgon, would ask only that Tuor love Idril truly, that he care for her and never speak sharply to her or bring her to tears, for she was her Papa’s heart itself, and to hurt her would be to torment him directly. And Tuor crying now, as he embraced the king, and swore it to him, swore it by each of the Valar and upon his own life. 

She had come to them, the two men she loved most in the world crying in each other’s arms. Had taken her Papa’s hand in her left and Tuor’s in her right, and kissed them simultaneously, begging them not to cry anymore, for love is a joyful thing, and is folly to cry over.

ø

And so at last, seven years after their first meeting at Turgon’s dinner party on the Eve-of-Nost, Idril’s wedding day arrived. Everyone rose at dawn. A happy frenzy stirred the palace just waking. Idril and Gilwen dressed in the same room, tying each other’s girdles, braiding hair, dabbing red into their cheeks. 

The maids wove about, remarking on the bride’s slender figure, the blessedness of the day, the groom, the crowds. When it came time for Idril to put on her wedding dress, Gilwen excused herself from the room.

“I shall not ruin the surprise. I will be with the rest.”

Closing the door, Gilwen nodded to their friends standing just outside, already dressed, as Gilwen was, in spare silver gowns that swept the ankle, and silver slippers; their hair around their shoulders, their arms full of lilies. They were all beaming. Narfin handed Gilwen her flowers as they all proceeded down the stairs, chatting excitedly.

“Did you see it?” they asked her, “Idril in her dress?”

“Not yet, not yet.”

The walls echoed with their feminine laughter and the patter of their slippered feet. They assembled in the main hall by the tall palace doors. The sounds of gathering spectators sounded from outside-- hundreds of pairs of feet, and so many voices, and the horn-players warming up on their horns.

They waited, perhaps a half hour or more. 

Then Idril appeared at the top of the stairs.

Gilwen’s heart stopped at the sight of her. Next to her, Narfin put her hand to her mouth and had to cry at how beautiful Idril looked that day, standing above them with the lights streaming on her through all the windows. Her gown was snowy brocade, embroidered with gold, and sewn with hundreds of tiny, starlike diamonds. 

From a distance she sparkled like a snowfall at dawn. On her head rested a delicate headdress of tinted gold. Her magnificent silver hair streamed over her shoulders, like a waterfall. Every eye from the maid’s to the doorman’s followed Idril as she floated down the staircase, her slender fingers gathering the folds of her gown before her.

She held her head high, and they saw how tall she was, and what a presence, like her father the king. When she reached her bride’s-maids, she stretched her arms before her. Narfin’s eyes were still glistening. Idril took Narfin’s and Gilwen’s hands in her own. Then they all joined hands. Gilwen felt a sudden blissful calm overtake her at Idril’s touch, as though all the power and grace within the bride could come through their joined hands, into each of their bodies, in that moment.

The huge palace doors opened outward, and daylight streamed in. Blinded, they heard the cheer before they saw the crowd. Roses flew up onto the palace steps, and the the lilting elven horns began to play. Idril led them through the open doors, not in lines or formation, but in a cheery throng, like a flock of swans, as she had wanted. The sublime light washed over them. Down the steps, and amidst the parted crowd they walked. 

_ “Idril, Daughter of Elenwë,” _ announced the herald from the balcony, _ “And of Turgon, on this, the First of Nárië, her wedding day!” _

The elves in the gathered crowd bowed their heads as the throng walked past. The children in the front row clacked their castanets, waving for the bride’s maids to please toss them a lily. Onward they went, to the temple, where Idril’s father, and her betrothed, were waiting.

ø

Many blessings were said, many ancient scripts read from, the names of family lines repeated. Idril’s mind began to wander, and longed to fidget as she stood there in her gown. She cast a glance over the aisle at Tuor. Her breath caught in her chest. She knew from his expression that his eyes had been full of her since she walked in, and of nothing else, as though he could never look enough.

As she smiled toward her lover, she gave no thought to Maeglin, sitting at Turgon’s side in the front row, or any of the others, but only of the years, the endless limited years, she and Tuor would have all to themselves.

Their hands joined, the silver rings slipped onto their fingers, and their lips met to thunderous applause. For the second time in history, an elf was wed with a mortal man, a child of the Edain.

ø

All day the wine flowed and servants bore tureen after tureen of fine food from the kitchens. Everyone drank, ate, and drank some more, and the lutes and strings played on and on. Tuor and Idril strolled from table to table, receiving love, congratulations, more blessings. 

Around one o’clock, Idril excused herself for the washroom and Tuor returned to take his seat at the king’s table. Turgon was elsewhere, no doubt receiving well-wishes of his own. 

Maeglin alone remained there, his expression distant, one finger tapping the stem of his half-full wine glass. It was as though he were blind to the festivities around him, deaf to the music, inert to all the joy and life around him. 

A strange sense of pity came over Tuor. Perhaps it was not so easy to be Maeglin, son of Aredhel. Perhaps, under different circumstances, they might even have been friends. His love for Idril gave him the courage to take the seat to Maeglin’s right.

Maeglin stiffened as he sat, but turned to acknowledge him.

“Good morrow, Tuor, son of Huor. Please receive my heartfelt well wishes.”

Based on his stony features, these did not seem at all heartfelt. 

“I thank you, Maeglin,” said Tuor, “But could I ask something more of you?”

“What is it?”

“I would like us to be friends.”

Maeglin regarded him warily.

“Are we not friends now?”

Tuor looked him straight in the eye.

“You know what I mean. We have had our differences, for many reasons, and we have not always been kind to one another. But it ought not to be so. We are on the same side, you and I. It is my wedding day, Maeglin, and I would like nothing more than to put the past behind us if you are willing to do the same.” 

He picked up the nearby wine-bottle in offering.

With an almost reflexive flick of his wrist, Maeglin slid his wineglass on the table away from Tuor’s reaching hand. There was an awkward pause.

“One drink,” said Tuor, “For Idril’s sake. That is all I ask.”

Maeglin scrutinized Tuor’s earnest face. Then he pushed his glass, just an inch, toward the man. Tuor smiled and sent a stream of Vanyarin wine into it, and raised his own glass to his lips. Maeglin did the same.

“To Gondolin!”

“Gondolin.” They drank.

As Maeglin put his glass down, he did not seem as forbidding as he had been a moment before. This put Tuor in good spirits.

“You will find yourself a wonderful woman one day, my cousin. It is said widely that you are keen-witted, skilled at the forge, noble in battle. Handsome, too, and I suspect you know it.”

“You flatter me.”

Maeglin was ten times harder to court than his cousin had been. As Tuor strained to think of something to say, Maeglin flicked his eyes over, as though with sudden interest.

“Tuor,” he said, “You were born the year after the _ Nirnaeth _, were you not? The year of mourning.”

“So I was. Why?”

But Maeglin had looked away again, and seemed to be conversing with himself, a little drunk by now.

“Thirty years. You have walked upon Arda for thirty years.”

“Indeed, that is my--”

“Have you any idea how long I have loved your wife?”

“I--”

“Since the autumn of three forty, Tuor. I was twenty that year, the year I came to Gondolin with my poor mother. I have loved Idril for over a century longer than you have lived. Do you understand? Is your kind even able to comprehend that kind of time? You, who live and die within a single morning of this world. Born at sunrise and gone by noon, like an infant too early out of the womb.”

Maeglin was like a broken dam, thought Tuor, saying nothing until the floodgates gave way, and then unleashing a torrent of hurt. Where had he learned this?

“So you have come to make your peace. But know what you ask of me. Know that I have loved her, Tuor, for the whole of my wretched life, since before your father’s father lived. Can you believe that? Can you?”

Tuor’s pity for him grew at this abject appeal. 

“Maeglin, if I had never been born, if I had never been led by fate to the gates of Gondolin, and never laid eyes on Idril, still she would not be yours. Why must you begrudge us our union? Our happiness? Simply because yours cannot be?”

Maeglin leapt from his seat. His snarl was identical to Eöl’s, and some of those present that day swore they saw his ghost in Maeglin’s face.

“You could crawl through the desert for one million of your miserable mortal lifetimes, you brainless lout, and you would not earn one hour kissing your wife’s feet.”

Never a man to be bullied, Tuor spat back: “And you would have thousands die in Gondolin’s ruin, over a petty lover’s quarrel!”

A hush had settled around the party all around at the sound of their raised voices. Elves looked up from their half-finished meals and glanced around at each other. Maeglin sensed all of their eyes on them, hostile eyes. In the corner of his eye, he picked out Glorfindel several tables away, who had also alerted to the commotion. 

Then he saw Idril, returning to their table to rejoin Tuor, Idril in her shimmering white dress, trembling in hatred. 

He met her furious gaze with defiance. What had he to hide from her now? How much more could his shame be multiplied? After all the years, here he lay exposed, bare and ugly before her.

“I-- _ never-- _ wanted-- _ any-- _ of your love!” she cried. Every word was twisted with revulsion.

By now, the entire courtyard had gone silent. Even the musicians had stopped playing. Maeglin stood there red in the face. A thousand emotions flashed over his features in turn before he screamed out his next words just like a child: 

“Could you give it all back to me, then!”

ø

He walked alone through the empty streets. Sounds of celebration grew distant behind him. His face was still burning from the humiliation of the scene he had left behind. He owed them all nothing, he thought, even as he felt a stab of shame for ruining Idril’s wedding day. 

Footsteps sounded on the flagstones behind him. He realized he was being followed, but he did not look back.


	13. Believe in Me

“Maeglin, where are you going?” called Glorfindel. He had no doubt had to extricate himself from his friends and admirers to chase Maeglin down this footpath. 

Bemused, Maeglin slowed to let Glorfindel catch up to him. He said nothing, but walked on, over scattered flowers and ribbons trampled by the crowd after the bride’s procession, toward the palace stables.

The stable boys were all gone, having received a day of rest for the royal wedding. Maeglin marched into the tack room himself, threw his mare’s saddle over his arm, slung her bridle over his shoulder, and hauled them over to her stall at the far end of the row of stables. He flipped the iron latch with his elbow. 

“Are you leaving Gondolin?”

Maeglin did not look at him, but continued to rapidly do up his mare’s girth. This mare was named Mothwing. She was gray all over, the spitting image of her distant great grand-dam, Elmoth, and just as highly strung. He slipped her bridle over long ears, led her onto the turf, stepped into the silver stirrup. She started walking before he was even fully astride her.

_ “ _ Maeglin-- _ Dartha! _ Wait!”

But Maeglin was already nudging her to a brisker trot, leaving Glorfindel behind. 

Exasperated, Glorfindel hurried to his own horse’s stall. This was a magnificent white stallion named Asfaloth. Glorfindel was a much better rider than was Maeglin, and with neither seat nor bridle, he climbed onto the steed’s back, taking mane in his hands for reins. 

“_ Khila sen, _” he whispered into the Asfaloth’s ear, and they took off at a canter, chasing the other horse and rider.

They rode. Through the North Gate and onto a mountain trail, sanded marble gave way to craggy rock and hardy foliage, and Glorfindel realized where they were destined. Sure enough, he heard Maeglin slow his horse to a walk up ahead, heard the gush of the waterfall he had run through, seven years before. 

_ “ _Asfaloth, be good,” said Glorfindel, dismounted, and turned the big white horse loose into the clearing. Asfaloth chuffed, and loped up to the pool for a drink. When Glorfindel walked into the clearing, Maeglin was sitting on a flat stone, dust marks down the legs of the fine clothes he still wore, staring into the roiling froth. 

Glorfindel looked around for another stone to sit on, found none, and placed himself on the ground next to Maeglin. There they sat, the golden boy and the pariah, watching the small but steady stream of water pour from between two jagged rocks against the afternoon sky. 

“Weddings are excruciating, are they not?”

Maeglin stared straight ahead, biting his lip white, and said nothing.

“Your silences are so very eloquent, Maeglin. We ought all to be able to speak in silences as well as you do.”

“Why did you follow me here? I have made a fool of myself, I know.”

“You should know,” said Glorfindel, “I think no less of you. Not at all.”

Maeglin looked up.

“If that is so, you must know nothing about me at all.”

“Why do you think so?” asked Glorfindel, genuinely curious.

“Don’t you know what people say about me? Of how I came to live in Gondolin?”

“I have heard the stories, Maeglin. They say your mother saved you at the cost of her own life, and the world shall not forget a love like that. And her hope, her kindness, her nobility of spirit live on in you.”

Maeglin brushed a strand of hair off of his face.

“I know my mother loved me,” he said, “But they don’t stop there. They whisper of how I stood and said nothing as she lay dying. How there was no drier eye than mine when they laid her in the ground on Tumladen. They say I am the very image of my father, that Turgon erred to put his trust in me.”

It was true. With his black hair, his upslanting eyes, his slender stature, he looked far more like Eöl than those of his mother’s kin. 

“They are fools then,” said Glorfindel softly, “To say how a child should mourn his mother.”

Maeglin sighed. 

“But they are right to think so, for I know he lives in me yet. I have his stature, his eyes, his complexion. I have his perversity. Even his awful, distorted, sick type of love for a woman. And his temper is all mine, quick and terrible. And by Ilúvatar, it is my fate to live out his damned life in mine.”

And as he said this, his voice grew higher, until he could hold it in no longer, and he broke out sobbing.

“Oh Glorfindel, how I hate them. All of them. How they think they know what wickedness is, how they look at me as though I owe them all a debt. Every day, I beg for forgiveness for the person that I am, for all of my failings. If I knew how to cut it out of me, this blight that makes me the way I am... If I could be rid of it, I would!”

Glorfindel watched him cry, listened without a word as the years of anger and loneliness came pouring from Maeglin’s lips between ragged breaths-- how it seemed that always, an invisible veil lay between him and all the others, how he heard the music and laughter as though through a closed door, and saw the beauty around him but stayed cold inside, his skin impermeable to any of it. And as the tirade abated, Glorfindel stood and reached out with his sleeve to wipe Maeglin’s face, which he tolerated without comment.

“It is pathetic of me to speak this way. What have I suffered, compared to Gwindor in Angband, or Maedhros upon Thangorodrim? What right have I to be unhappy?”

“How like a child you are, Maeglin,” said Glorfindel, but his voice was tender, not mocking, “To be so lost in your own mind like this, to believe you are so different from the rest of us, so unworthy of love! Why, it is true the painted bunting is unparalleled in beauty, while the nightingale is mournful brown. But its song is the loveliest of all.”

He sat down next to Maeglin on his stone.

“And if I were to think of you as a time of day, Maeglin, that hour after sunset is just as lovely as the dawn.”

Maeglin wiped his eye on his shoulder. 

“My mother named me after that very time of day,” he said, “She called me _ Lómion _. ‘Son of Twilight.’”

Maeglin’s eyes widened as these words came out.

“It has been a long time since I have used that name.”

Glorfindel laughed.

“It suits you! For you are somber and inscrutable as twilight itself. But never, never unworthy of love. Why, if you think so, then you may have mine!”

Maeglin had quieted now, and was ashamed of his tears.

“Forgive me. I haven’t done that since, well.”

He hadn’t cried since before his mother died.

“Do not ask for my forgiveness. A friend is there to catch your tears.”

They sat and contemplated the waterfall. Across the pool, Mothwing was rolling around indulgently in the dirt, while Asfaloth chewed at the tough wild grass, pawing the ground.

“Maeglin, do you remember when you asked me whether I had been in love?”

A sharp look answered him.

“Well, I have been. I spoke untruthfully when I said it was but a distant inkling. I remember, vividly as I see you now, how it was to be wholly, horribly in love with a woman. She loved me too, you know, for a time. And after that, I swear by Ilúvatar, she broke my heart.”

Maeglin said softly, “But what fool of a woman would stop loving _ you _?”

And his eyes were so earnest that Glorfindel had to burst out laughing once more.

“We quarreled,” he said, “About what-- I don’t remember. Something insanely mundane. But we were young then, and stupid, and our courtship did not survive it. For a time, I grieved-- truly grieved for what might have been. And afterward the two of us became good friends again. I love her still, in that sense, and to this day, we look back upon that time with fond remembrance.”

“Still? Glorfindel, who can this woman be?”

Glorfindel’s blue eyes lit up with mirth as he replied: “She was married this morning!”

Maeglin stared at him, open mouthed. Then he started to laugh: and not just a chuckle of disbelief, but full, bright peals of laughter that spilled from his chest like molten gold. 

What a wonderful laugh Maeglin had, Glorfindel thought, when it was clear and genuine like this. A gem made all the more exquisite by its rarity.

Afterward, and Glorfindel did not know for exactly how long, they sat side by side and talked about themselves. Glorfindel had had many more years than Maeglin. He spoke of all the places he had called home throughout his life, all of the battles and journeys, all of the good friends he had lost along the way. And Maeglin spoke of Nan Elmoth, that misty world in the trees he could barely remember. 

The conversation turned to other things: music, art, bows, swords, horses, dwarves, philosophy. Then they suddenly ran out of things to say, and simply sat and beheld one another’s faces, aware they each now knew more of the other’s soul than many ever would.

“Maeglin,” said Glorfindel, “You were not entirely honest with me either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember? You told me your desire was freedom. Another horizon, another shore.”

“So I did. It was so long ago. But still it is true.”

Glorfindel shook his head. 

“I think it is not freedom you want, friend, but quite the opposite. You want to belong to someone, or something. And because you think you cannot have it, you think your only choice is to run away.”

Maeglin considered this. Was it really so simple as that?

“Tell me what I must do.”

“I cannot. There is no one who can do that. But I think it would be wise to start with one friend.”

There was a mole on Maeglin’s left cheek, a little black mark you could touch if you traced straight back from the corner of his mouth, which Glorfindel did now with his thumb. Maeglin gave him a slight frown, and Glorfindel thought he might pull away from his touch. But instead, Maeglin took the outstretched hand in his own and, very deliberately, leaned in towards Glorfindel’s face.

They were very near each other now. Years in the future, Glorfindel would remember everything about this particular moment: how the setting sun dyed the flying plumes of the waterfall, how there was quiet but for the water and nightingales and insects, and that Maeglin’s warm breath on his eyelashes smelled sweetly of Vanyarin wine.

Obligingly, Glorfindel tilted his head and closed the distance between their lips. Without a soul around to see except for the two horses watching from the other side of the pool, they kissed, languidly, innocently, until the light went down.

For that moment, it seemed the veil had lifted. For now, that was enough. 

The two of them sat a long time at the waterfall in the evolving dusk, savoring the gentle ache between them.

“I shall be your ruin,” said Maeglin dreamily, pushing his fingers in and out of the spaces between Glorfindel’s.

“Really? And why should this be?”

“You are too good, Glorfindel.You are joyful, you are pure of heart. You have faith in me, one who has faith in nothing. And I will fail you until your faith is lost.”

Glorfindel closed his fingers around Maeglin’s hands, gently trapping them in his grasp.

“Would you like to know something I have told to very few?”

Maeglin nodded. Without the usual guarded gleam in his eyes, he looked much younger.

“Joy is no easy thing to attain, for those of us who have suffered so much. There are days my spirit feels too heavy to lift. Days where all things seem ugly, and all elves seem so stupid and selfish and small.

It is precisely on such days where we must have faith. In the Valar if you like, but not only. Believe that better times lie before you. Believe that some good comes from every evil, and that evil may be contained one day, if not vanquished. Believe also in people, and they will always surprise you for the better. And lastly, believe in yourself, Maeglin, and that when the time comes, you will act nobly. For I surely do.”

“How can you be sure of that?” beseeched Maeglin, “With all that you know of me? Am I to be the one to destroy your faith?”

“Don’t you understand, Maeglin? It will not be so easy for you to destroy my faith, for it is not predicated on the events of the world. If it were, I think I would go mad. No, Maeglin. Faith must come from within, must be forged boldly in spite of the sorrows we have seen.”

Maeglin nodded once more. Could it be? It seemed so extraordinary, the faith Glorfindel had in all things. Would it ever be possible for him to believe like that? 

Without warning, he began to cry again. But he wept neither in rage or sorrow, but as a torrent of raw emotion overcame him, and he realized he could feel again, for the first time he could remember. He sobbed into Glorfindel’s chest, and laughed, and cried some more, and every heaving breath that came out of him seemed to bring a kind of release. 

For a long time, Glorfindel held him close, stroking his hair, waiting patiently for Maeglin’s breaths to steady once more. 

ø

From then on, Maeglin had a friend in Gondolin. They went to pubs together some days, before Glorfindel’s night watch, attended plays, invited one another to feasts arranged at their respective Houses. They would make their way to the archery range together, or go riding even if Glorfindel was not too busy from training, organizing the guard, and seeing to all of his other obligations; and if Maeglin could find the time between his duties as head-smith, and, alongside Turgon and Idril, attending to the affairs of the state. 

They would arrive together at Turgon’s parties. Glorfindel, in his usual fashion, would dance with any woman who shyly caught his eye, and Maeglin would watch smiling as she transformed into a beauty in Glorfindel’s arms. He never begrudged Glorfindel his many other friends, or the attention he received from women. For he never feared there was a limit to the love Glorfindel’s heart could hold, never wanted anything like ownership of him.

Thereafter, Maeglin no longer sat alone in the corner, but at Glorfindel’s side. Sometimes they were approached in twos, and there was a partner for each of them. On rare occasions, some even bypassed Glorfindel and curtsied before Maeglin directly-- and in these instances Glorfindel’s eyes would dance at him encouragingly, with delight. 

Forgiveness for Maeglin’s outburst at Idril’s wedding came gradually from the Gondolindrim, starting with Glorfindel’s closest friends.

As his grace grew, Maeglin became bold enough at last to approach pretty girls and offer them his hand. He began to show civility, even liking, toward Tuor. Little by little, Idril’s coolness toward him wore away, and once when the two of them found themselves near each other on the ballroom floor, she smiled warmly and gave her his hands. And with an equally friendly smile, he took them, and danced the song with her.

Life went on in Gondolin. By and by, Maeglin found that the air was sweeter, the sun brighter, and people kinder, when he chose to see it so. Even as the shadow of the Fall loomed just ahead in the future, Maeglin was happy at last in the city, and like Idril, his last few years in Gondolin would be the happiest he ever had. 

His mining trips beyond Caragdûr became more infrequent, perhaps a few times per year, for just a few weeks or more. And on every return he was greeted with a happy grin and an embrace from his friend Glorfindel within minutes of stabling his horse.

One day, a parcel was delivered to his door. The messenger was long gone. He took it to his bedchamber, unwrapped it on the blankets. As he had suspected, it was a sword-- one newly made, judging by the perfection of the blade. The hilt was of light steel, covered in smooth hide; the hilt was inlaid with an intricate pattern of some unknown stones, pearly-sheened but deep red in hue. There was a small scroll of paper enclosed in the packaging:

_ “The blade glows when enemies near, _

_ The hilt when kindred are.” _

Glorfindel had flushed powerfully at the message, and when he had collected himself, picked up the sword and gave it a swing in his bedroom. It was impeccable-- the balance precise, the heft ideal for his hand. And when he crossed it with his own ancient elfmade sword, he found that the new blade left a tiny nick in the other. 

That day, he left his old sword in the armory and sheathed the gift to no one’s knowledge. He carries it with him still.


	14. Beloved

Idril’s journal lay on the great dome of her belly in front of her. A warm breeze picked up, and a shower of  _ mallorn  _ leaves fell into her hair and the open page. Someone walked her way from the palace. Even from the corner of her eye she recognized her father.

“Good morrow, Papa,” she said as he approached, putting her book away.

“And to you, my daughter,” he said, joining her on the swing she sat on. Together they looked out at the gardens, and the palace in the distance, nudging the ground with their feet to move the swing. 

“You’re getting even bigger than your mother was,” said Turgon, glancing at her abdomen, “It can’t be long before my grandson arrives.”

“I hope so,” laughed Idril, “I can’t stand being pregnant another day.”

Turgon smiled. Out of habit, he reached out and adjusted the lay of her mantle on her shoulders. It was deep purple today. Turgon frowned.

“Idril,” he said, “Why haven’t you worn the pink mantle I gave you for the  _ Nost _ ? I think it would suit you perfectly.”

Idril grimaced guiltily.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she said, “It’s not pink. It’s  _ fuschia _ .”

“And just what is wrong with fuschia? Never mind. Let me fix your hair.”

“Leave it Papa, I won’t be seen today,” said Idril impatiently, shifting in her seat to avoid her father’s hands.

“You mustn't let it hang about so,” he said sternly, “Collecting leaves and twigs like a stray cat. Here, let me fix it. Return to your work and pay no attention to me.”

With an amused roll of her eyes, Idril flipped open her book to the unfinished page. She was nearly an age old and about to become a mother herself, and still her father would fret. 

Idril had been motherless since she was nine years old. Tugon had learned to do her braids, picked out her dresses, and taught her how to make friends and turn down her suitors, or the opposite. When, to her horror, her monthly cycles had begun, he had dried her tears, brought her some cake, and had a long talk with her. 

All this he had done with serenity, as if it were every father’s duty in the world to teach their daughters to be women. Though she had missed Elenwë dearly, she had never wanted for a shoulder to cry on or a parent to protect her.

After the war, when Idril had ruled in Turgon’s stead, the two had grown closer still; and they had each marveled how much more there had been to learn about the other. They were equals, confidantes, partners now, who challenged each other often. Their love for one another was a powerful, unprecedented thing, understood by few.

Now Turgon’s practiced hands reached the ends of the silver ropes he formed of Idril’s hair. He fastened them at the crown of her head with the pins he knew she kept in her waist pocket.

“I am wondering, Idril,” he said, “Whether we should increase the budget for arms and defense this year. Certainly since Tuor prophesied Morgoth’s coming, we have kept an extra-vigilant watch upon our walls, but supposing…? And yet I hate to take the farmers from the fields and the tradesmen from their shops. There is no sense in such a large standing army in peacetime.”

Idril opened her mouth to answer. But at that moment, her entire belly clenched, and she grunted in shock, doubling over.

“Idril?”

Idril could not speak, but only wait helplessly for the pang to release her. Dimly, she was aware of Turgon gently rubbing her back, and that she was squeezing his hand quite hard. At last, the sensation abated, and she took gulps of air.

“Can you walk?” asked Turgon, scrutinizing her white face.

“I don’t know,” she stammered, clinging to his fingers.

So the king stood, and in one smooth movement lifted his grown daughter into his arms. Idril had forgotten how strong he was. He carried her through the gardens as she groaned, across the courtyard and up the palace side-steps. It was thus they entered the palace, and the footmen looked at them in alarm.

“Send for Gilwen,” said Turgon, “And for Tuor. Bring water to Idril’s chamber.”

As the servants went running, Turgon bore Idril up another flight of stairs, reassuring her in Quenya, her childhood tongue, as she winced through another birth pang. Idril curled her head into Turgon’s chest. As always, her father’s arms were enough to make her feel safe, even through the ordeal that would follow.

“It hurts, Papa,” she breathed as he lay her gently down on her bed.

“I know,  _ Arimelda _ , my beloved,” he said, and undid her dress to replace it with a nightgown, “It is the strength of your own body you feel. I was present when your mother birthed you. The midwife told me, ‘Ilúvatar left childbearing to women because they alone could endure it,’ and I have believed it since that day.”

Tuor and Gilwen burst in together, followed by two young apprentice-midwives. Tuor’s face was pale as he rushed to Idril’s side and knelt down by the bed. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“I’m fine,” said Idril. Truthfully, though she had heard accounts of labor, she could not have imagined it would feel like this.

“Sit down, Tuor,” said Turgon, smiling, “It will be a while yet.”

Gilwen set down her bag by the door and sent the apprentices outside.

“You look wonderful,” she said, and Idril laughed, lying back amongst her pillows.

ø

Idril labored in the half-light. Her father sat at the head of her bed, his hand on her shoulder, and her husband held her hands.

Some women are blessed with swift and miraculous births. Idril was not one of them. It was past midnight when her water broke, soaking her clothing and the sheets beneath. The pain was unbearable now, and she could no longer hold back groans at the force that gripped the lower half of her body. 

Idril felt fear gradually mingling with the pain. Even to her inexperienced mind, this seemed excessive, somehow wrong. The slight frown on Gilwen’s face was not reassuring.

“Push, Idril,” she said, “Harder than that, don’t be afraid. You can do it.”

When the baby’s head started to crown and the sharp tang of blood in the air intensified, Tuor collapsed into his chair, on the verge of fainting.

“Take him outside,” said Gilwen to one of the apprentices, “Give him some water.”

“I’m not leaving her side,” snapped Tuor.

“You’re about to faint,” said Gilwen, “And I don’t need another patient right now. You can help me by taking care of yourself. We’ll need you later.”

Reluctantly, Tuor allowed the apprentice to lead him out the door.

Turgon took over Tuor’s task immediately. Idril grasped his hands, and leaned back against him while he encouraged her to bear down. 

Her groans morphed into screams. She could not say how much time went by before she felt a sharp, sudden, stinging sensation, heard a gush of fluid. It was then she caught sight of the change in Gilwen’s expression: a look of utter dread that made her momentarily forget her pain.

“What is it? What’s wrong?  _ Tell me the truth! _ ”

Gilwen’s voice sounded like it took all of her resolve to keep calm.

“Listen to me carefully, Idril,” she said, “I think the shoulders are stuck. This is not uncommon.”

“What?” shouted Turgon from the head of the bed, “What do you mean?”

“It may be a difficult delivery,” said Gilwen, “And…”

But because Idril was her friend, because she loved her too much, she could not finish the sentence. Turgon leapt up in agitation. The apprentice whimpered and Gilwen shot her a warning glare. Idril’s face took on an expression of steely serenity: she understood what Gilwen was unable to say next.

“Cut me open,” she said bluntly, “If it comes to it. That is my desire. Save my son’s life over mine.”

Gilwen’s eyes widened in horror. 

“It has not come to that yet. But--”

“ _ No! _ ”

The three of them-- Gilwen, Idril, and the apprentice-- turned sharply to look at the one who had uttered the cry. Even through the nauseating pain and her own anguish, Idril would never forget the look on her father’s face that very moment: so lost, so terrified, it hurts her heart to think of today. 

“No,” he cried out again. This time it was more of a groan, “I won’t let you die bearing this child, Idril, you can’t-- please--”

“Papa…”

Turgon’s eyes looked like those of a drowning man, looked like he  _ would _ drown if she would not promise him that very moment that she would walk out of that delivery room alive. He started to cry then, as she had never seen him cry like this before, not even after losing Elenwë, or Aredhel, or Fingolfin or Fingon: hysterical, uncontrolled, despairing.

“ _ Oh, Ilúvatar, please-- I can’t lose you, Idril! _ ”

For some reason she would always remember how he had not said,  _ “I can’t lose you too.” _

In the instant Turgon screamed his daughter’s name, Tuor burst into the room. Idril had opened her mouth to give her final answer, but the word transformed into a bloodcurdling scream as the apprentice pushed down hard on Idril’s abdomen, Gilwen pulled, twisted, and finally wrenched the child out of her in a torrent of blood.

Tuor stood frozen in the doorway. Deathly silence hung in the room as the apprentice rushed to press a load of rags between Idril’s legs to stop the bleeding, and Gilwen held the limp newborn close to her body, rubbing his purple face, his chest, his legs. 

After what seemed like an eternity, there came a tiny, mewling cry.

Idril started to sob in exhausted relief. The king sank down onto the bed and threw his arms around Idril, shaking. And Tuor watched with his mouth open and tears flowing freely down his face as Gilwen cut the cord, swaddled the baby, and placed him into Idril’s reaching hands. 

“ _ Ai Ilúvatar _ , he’s so beautiful,” she said, “Oh, how perfect he is. My Eärendil. Look at his hands, Tuor-- he will follow the water one day. Papa, he has your eyes.”

The family drew close to the newborn prince, the child that had nearly cost Idril her life.

Gilwen busied herself, tidying the bloodstained sheets, disposing of the afterbirth, cleaning the new mother with warm, wet cloth, stitching her wounds with rapid efficiency. She was about to leave quietly when Idril called after her.

“Gilwen! Where are you going?”

Gilwen stopped, not quite knowing what to say. How could Idril look so joyful, so carefree after what she had just endured? It chilled her heart, inured her to the joy of the moment, to think how close she came to losing her friend.

“You’ve saved both our lives, Gilwen,” said Idril, her eyes brimming with gratitude, “Please stay a while. My son wishes to thank you.”

Gilwen walked over and accepted the warm bundle. Eärendil opened his eyes and fidgeted in the hands that had delivered him. Her misgivings melted away as she held her friend’s baby, and her heart filled with tenderness. Along with it came fierce protectiveness she had never felt before, at his tiny vulnerability.

The baby turned his head to the side, mouth open.

“He’s hungry,” said Gilwen, and showed Idril how to put him to her breast.

Turgon gazed at his grandson in utter awe. He remembered the last words of the mortal man Huor, who had been Tuor’s father, on the bloodstained field of the  _ Nirnaeth _ : “ _ ...Out of your house shall come the hope of Elves and Men... from you and from me a new star shall arise...” _

After all the years, he and his long-dead comrade had both been grandfather to the same child, after all.  _ A new star. _ Eärendil sucked away guilelessly at his mother’s teat, unaware of the greatness for which he was destined, and the sorrows that would soon befall them all.

Tuor was still silent, too overcome for words. He knelt down on the floor beside Idril, gazing into the tiny face with one hand on his swaddling-cloths. In all his adventures and journeys, he would always swear up and down nothing he ever laid eyes on would fill him with so much wonder as had the birth of his son. 

Ø

“You wanted to see me, Maeglin?”

Tuor stood at the top of the smithy steps holding open the door, as the masked face turned sharply to look at him.

“Tuor. Ah-- yes, I did.”

Tuor waited as Maeglin set down the pieces he had been working with, seized the long, thin package leaning against his shelf, and walked up the steps into the sun.

“Thank you for meeting me here, Tuor.”

Tuor smiled at him somewhat quizzically.

“It was no trouble, my cousin,” said Tuor. 

Maeglin had fixed his piercing eyes straight on his. It was rather unsettling. In the past, the elf had avoided even being in the same room as Tuor.

“I just wanted to say,” said Maeglin, “Congratulations. On the birth of your son.”

There was something different in Maeglin’s voice as he said this, which Tuor recognized, astonished, as sincerity.

“Thank you, Maeglin,” said Tuor. 

He spoke slowly, making as clear as possible the goodwill he meant with his words, “Thank you… very, very much.”

Maeglin smiled at him, something he did not recall ever happening before.

“Tell me, how is the child doing?”

“Oh-- excellent-- really wonderful,” gushed Tuor at once, his uncertainty forgotten as the subject turned to his son, “He has these great big hands, well, for his size, I mean, and he has Idril’s father’s eyes, I mean the spitting image, and he smiled at me the other day, and-- well, what I mean to say is he’s doing very well. Both he and Idril.”

Maeglin gave a soft little laugh.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said. 

Then his eyes lit up as he remembered why he had called Tuor here.

“I have a gift for you,” he said, and he held up the bundle in his hands. It was wrapped in several layers of green fabric. He smiled once again at Tuor’s questioning face.

“It is a special occasion, Tuor. One does not become a father every day. Here, open it.”

Tuor received the bundle, and untied the intricate knot that held it together. His eyes widened as the cloth fell away to reveal the hilt of a sword, and he took it in his hand and unveiled the blade: the shimmer of sleek black metal greeted him.

“This is Anguirel,” said Maeglin, “Its twin is Anglachel, my father’s gift to King Thingol, passed by fate into the hands of Túrin, your kinsman. Reforged, Anglachel became Gurthang, and with it Túrin slayed Glaurung. It is only befitting you should have its brother.”

Tuor said nothing at first, but gazed entranced at the dark gleam of the blade. It was almost seductive in quality, deadly and beautiful.

“I can’t accept this,” he said, looking back at Maeglin. 

The elf looked surprised.

“Oh, It’s magnificent, Maeglin,” Tuor went on, “Like I’ve never seen in my life. It is too precious for you to give away as a naming-day gift.”

Maeglin’s eyes gleamed humorously, rather like Anguirel’s black blade.

“It is mine to give to whomever I wish.”

Even as Tuor tried to give the sword back, he felt his fingers tighten around the hilt, found a sudden loathing at the idea of letting it go. He imagined Anguirel calling to him, like it had a soul of its own. He lifted it now and swung it in an arc above its head. It made a liquid swooping noise as it sliced the air. 

Though Tuor favored fighting with his great axe, this blade somehow moved in perfect harmony with his body, as though it were an extension of himself, and he were controlling it with his mind.

“Take it,” insisted Maeglin, “And use it to protect your wife and son. May it serve you well.” 

He turned to go.

“Maeglin, wait,” said Tuor. The elf turned around again.

“Thank you,” said Tuor, “Words cannot describe the preciousness of this gift.”

At this Maeglin inclined his head and smiled, but said nothing.

“But also,” said Tuor, “Thank you. For-- well-- I will only say I know that it hasn’t been easy for you, all that’s happened since I came here.”

“The fault was mine, Tuor. I acted childishly toward you, and foolishly, and I regret it. What I feel for her still is not by choice. I begrudge you no longer.”

Tuor suddenly reached out and embraced his wife’s cousin with the hand that was not holding Anguirel. He felt Maeglin softly return the gesture.

“I am going away now, for a while,” said Maeglin, “Please send my warmest thoughts to Idril and Eärendil, in the meantime.”

“Why not give them yourself?” said Tuor, grinning, “Would you like to meet my son?”

Ø

“Put his head in the crook of your arm, and support his back. Like this.”

Eärendil regarded Maeglin, and squirmed to be closer to his body. Instinctively, Maeglin held the child more tightly to himself.

“He likes that,” said Idril, “Your warmth.”

He was unprepared for the rush of joy he would feel when the baby suddenly smiled at him, cooing. Maeglin held him in quiet fascination until Eärendil began to fidget and whimper, and handed him back to Idril for a feeding. 

He and Tuor left the room together, their arms around each other’s shoulders.

ø

Idril looked up with Eärendil at her breast as Gilwen entered the room. Her face was shining with tears. Gilwen noted in an instant that her eyes were dull, and her normally glowing skin looked sallow and drawn. She said nothing, but sat at the head of Idril’s bed and gathered her friend in her arms. 

“I almost let him die,” said Idril tearfully, “As I birthed him, when Papa begged me, and I was so terrified of dying. I almost exchanged his life for my own. Ilúvatar, what kind of mother am I? To make a choice like that?”

It was alarming to see Idril like this, faltering and guilty. Idril had always been so sure of everything she did, had never wavered on what she believed to be right.

“You will be a wonderful mother,” she said, “You already are.”

But Idril shook her head so furiously Eärendil startled. 

“I am not,” she cried, “I preached to you in the past about morality and goodness, I spoke angrily to you. I told you innocent life was sacred. I, who would have traded my own son to live. It haunts me to think what could have become of that decision.”

Gilwen put her lips on Idril’s temple and held her close.

“It was no decision at all,” she said, “No decision anyone should ever have to make, for there was never a right answer. Remember that both you and Eärendil are alive and well. You are the greatest person I have ever known. It would have remained so no matter which way you chose.”

Idril rested her head against Gilwen’s neck and sighed. She was so very tired. 

“I think he’s done nursing,” said Gilwen, “Let me take him from you. Get some sleep.”

Idril nodded and transferred her son to Gilwen’s arms. She lay back in her pillows and closed her eyes. She was lucky, she knew, to have three people in the world who cared for her so deeply, whose lives would never be the same if she were not in them. It was time to let them take care of her for a while. 


	15. Earth and Sky

He released it. The string sang and the air hissed, and the arrow streaked across the yellow field. It embedded solidly in the mannequin’s chest, just left of center. 

A flock of birds passed overhead on a southward course that marked impending winter. Maeglin did up a button on his coat and reached once more over his shoulder for his quiver.

Just then, the twang of a second bowstring came from behind him, and a sudden rush of wind caught his hair as another arrow flew past his ear toward the mannequin, finding its mark precisely next to his. 

Maeglin shielded his eyes from the dilute sunlight and squinted across the field in disbelief at the two arrows in the mannequin’s chest. Even from this distance it was clear that the distance between the two shafts, perfectly parallel, was no wider than a little finger. 

“Show-off,” he muttered, and drew back again on his own bowstring.

A firm hand on his elbow stopped him from completing the action. Maeglin relaxed his bow-arm and turned around to see Glorfindel shouldering his longbow.

“I don’t understand,” said Glorfindel, “Turgon tells me you’re leaving again, and so soon. Without even telling me this time.”

“Good afternoon. Haven’t you a watch to keep?”

“No, I’m off-duty this week. I told you.”

“And yet you choose to spend your days of rest hounding me,” said Maeglin, but he was smiling. There was never a time he did not enjoy seeing Glorfindel’s face.

“I’m serious,” said Glorfindel, “You returned from the last expedition not more than a month ago. Surely you haven’t exhausted those ores already?”

Maeglin stepped closer and ran his finger along the bridge of the other elf’s nose.

“You are so very beautiful, Glorfindel,” he said, “Did you know that?”

“Don’t change the subject,” said Glorfindel crossly, “What is the matter with you lately? Is it Celebrimbor’s coming? I understand he is a skilled smith, as you are, and it is human nature to--”

“Celebrimbor?” snorted Maeglin, “My dear Glorfindel, I am not so petulant as to resent the superiority of another smith. There is room in Gondolin for both the son of Curufin and me. He deals in jewels, and not metal, besides.”

“What, then? Maeglin, is it Eärendil?”

This time, Glorfindel caught Maeglin’s eyes flashing in guilty assent.

“Really, Maeglin,” he said reproachfully, “A child not seven years old has darkened your days? You are better than that.”

“I know it,” said Maeglin, “And believe me, I’m fond of the boy, almost more than I like. He’s sharper than most, polite, and good-hearted. But--”

“But you envy Idril’s love for him,” said Glorfindel, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice, “But he reminds you of what can never be yours.”

Maeglin hung his head.

“I know how terrible that sounds,” he said, “And what an ass I am. But I’m trying, I swear it to you. I just need a little more time.”

He was too ashamed to admit how unhappy his days had become. Since the hour of Eärendil’s birth, Maeglin’s jealousy had multiplied such he himself grew afraid.

Even as Ecthelion and Glorfindel and all other the lords and ladies of Turgon’s court had fawned over this half-elven princeling, an unusually beautiful child, Maeglin caught himself avoiding him, Tuor, Idril and Turgon at all costs. Even Gilwen had become difficult to face. 

Each joy that graced the lives of the family seemed to hit him like a blow to the stomach from a sword-hilt. He was falling back into his old ways again, he realized, and he hated himself for it: forgetting to eat, sometimes for days; drinking, fast and hard, in the way Gilwen would flay him for if she knew. 

Ironically, little Eärendil had taken a great liking to Maeglin, his mysterious uncle who sometimes had glimmering gems in his pocket as gifts. He battled daily to be let into the smithy, which Idril would vehemently refuse. 

But Maeglin was just as happy the young child would never set foot in there, his last remaining sanctuary within the city.

In recent times he had started to leave Gondolin even more frequently than he used to. But he told himself now that it was for their sake, and not his own. Eärendil, Tuor, and Idril had done nothing wrong to deserve his ill will, he knew; yet he would do them nothing but harm by being near them. 

He looked back into Glorfindel’s blue eyes, expecting to find more reproach. Instead, what he saw was a rather sad understanding.

“Your absences have grown longer,” said Glorfindel, “I have missed you. And now I miss you all over again.”

“I will miss you too, Glorfindel. Terribly. You know there is no one in Arda I love the way I love you.” 

He fit his arrow to the string once more, but instead of aiming toward the mannequin, he pointed it deep into the sky toward the hiding sun, higher still, and loosed it. They watched as it arced across the heavens, shrinking down to a speck in the clouds. On the descent it glanced off the edge of the city wall before tumbling into the ravine.

“I’m close, you know,” said Maeglin, “So close to being the person you want me to be. Someday, someday soon, he and I will be the same, I promise you that.”

“I just wish you didn’t have to go,” said Glorfindel. There was something almost like anger in his voice. He nocked his own arrow, aimed with care, and let it fly. 

With such force did it hit the mannequin’s head that the arrow’s shaft splintered, and the wooden man toppled over on the stick it stood on. 

Maeglin looked over at him in surprise.

ø

Baldur’s beard had grown whiter over the years, but he was as vigorous as ever as he climbed through the mines with Maeglin.

“So you’re still in love with that girl,” he said gruffly, “That much is clear.”

He waited as Maeglin placed a small charge in the crevice of the rock. These explosives were of his own invention, and in the past few years had rapidly expanded the scope of their operation.

Maeglin shrugged. “I have yet to learn how  _ not _ to be. I loved her since I was a teenager, and I thought, like everyone else, it was an infatuation I would simply outgrow.” 

He snapped the flint on the charge, activating it.

“Even so,” said Baldur, as the two of them walked further out of the cavern, “You’ve changed. You seemed happier, for a little while at least.”

“If you had seen the way she stood and yelled at me that day in her wedding dress,” laughed Maeglin, “Believe me, since that moment, I’ve tried to live a better life, to be a better person than I was.”

He bent down and stuffed the final charge into the rock wall. Then they ran toward the entrance of the cavern.

“Surely, in the whole of that fancy elf city you live in,” huffed Baldur as they ran, “Someone else has won your heart?”

Elf and dwarf stepped into safety just as the charges exploded behind them, one after the other, and the ground trembled with a cascade of collapsing rock.

“There was one other,” Maeglin admitted, patting rock dust from his clothes.

“Oh! And who is she?” asked Baldur, nosily.

“Golden-haired,” Maeglin replied after a pause, “Beautiful, skilled with the bow.”

The dwarf threw back his head and guffawed. 

“You ought to hang around this blonde beauty more often! If you haven’t stopped thinking of Idril after a week, I’ll shave my beard!” he roared. 

Maeglin looked out over the ledge across a desert plain. The other dwarves were approaching with carts to clear the rubble. He took the opportunity to turn his back toward Baldur, lower his breeches and relieve himself over the side of the mountain, ruminating. 

The place that Glorfindel occupied in his heart was somehow orthogonal, complementary to the one Idril filled. In a way that was mystifying to him, he loved Glorfindel peacefully and without envy, a love so different from the destructive, all-consuming, hopeless need that Idril instilled in him. But the one was not quite enough to assuage the other.

He finished pissing and rearranged his clothes, but frowned when he noticed Baldur staring.

“What?”

“Your blade is glowing, boy.”

Maeglin looked where Baldur was pointing. 

“Get down!” he yelled, just as a black arrow flew out of the sky. It glanced off of the  _ galvorn _ breastplate Baldur wore, the one that Maeglin had made him all those years ago. There was nowhere to go-- the tunnel they had just collapsed with the blast had been their shortest route of escape.

From above them, the shriveled faces of a goblin horde emerged. They had been hiding in the foliage all this time, lying in wait.

Maeglin pulled his longbow from his back. He heard a sharp scuffle to his left, and blindly loosed an arrow in that direction. He turned to see it hobbling toward them, shot in the leg and half-hamstrung.

Baldur and the rest of the dwarves held their axes before them and stood with their backs to the rock wall. Most of them wore only leather pauldrons. They had not been prepared for battle. But if it were just a handful of goblins, perhaps they would be able to hold their own.

Just then, from the distance came an inhuman shriek. Maeglin’s ear twitched. There was no mistaking that sound, which had rung out in a deadly chorus across the battlefield of the  _ Nirnaeth Arnoediad _ . 

“Orcs,” he said, “ _ Fuck. _ Run!”

The dwarves looked at each other and fled back toward the mines. The goblins that pounced after them were fended off easily enough with good swings of their bronze axes. 

But when they reached the entrance, the orcs were already waiting. Leering, they advanced on the snarling wargs they rode, surrounding their small mining party. 

Baldur lifted his axe above his head.

“Fight us then, you foul creatures,” he shouted, drawing himself up to his full dwarven height, “Bet I’ll take at least five of you with me on my way to hell.”

The largest orc marched forward on his hulking, yellow-eyed beast of a mount, mace in hand. He had an uneven face, like hot wax that had been squeezed by a fist.

“We’re here for the elf,” he said in his guttural voice, “Hand him over and no blood need be shed.”

“Never!” came cries from the dwarves, “You’ll have to slay us first!” 

Their leader grinned and raised his hand. The orc-archers nocked their arrows, each pointing at a separate dwarf. There were far too many of them.

“No dwarf gives up a friend,” snarled Baldur. So saying, he charged forth with his axe, the rest of the dwarves close behind him.

They clashed, mace against axe, arrow against armor. Maeglin drew his glowing sword and managed to impale the orc behind him. He spun to parry a mace-blow aimed for Baldur’s neck. 

“Stay close, boy,” said the dwarf, “I’ll cover you.”

But although the dwarves fought valiantly, hewing through armor and even limb, the orcs closed in. Maeglin felt his head jerk back as rough hands seized his hair. He floundered to cut it, but it was too late. A swift blow to the belly brought him to his knees, and when he came to his senses he was being slung over the back of a warg, which was already carrying him away from the dwarves.

He strained his neck to see Baldur and the others, beaten down and wounded, starting to give chase, but they were too slow to overtake his captors. Quickly the outlines of the dwarves shrank into the distance. Maeglin struggled pitiably as they bound his hands, trying not to think about what would become of his friends.

“To Angband!” shouted the rider. He cried out in fury and despair, and a metal boot connected with his jaw. There was a crunching sensation, and he choked on a mouthful of blood. In captivity, Maeglin was taken to the fortress of Morgoth.

Ø

_ Morning _ . 

_ She sits at the edge of the fountain, dress draped over pink knees, bare legs crossed before her. Her smile is a yoke around his heart, and with it she draws him near. He thinks he might drown in the scent of lilies. _

_ He is dreaming. _

_ He knows this, because he has had this dream before. _

_ “Are you happy to see me, Maeglin?” _

_ He can see the soft down on her cheek. The molten need in his chest dissolves him.  _

_ “So silent,” she remarks, “Do you not love me?” _

_ Her steady fingers find his trembling ones. They are soft, and strong, and warm. Her touch dances straight through his flesh, and into bone, into soul. He closes his eyes as her lips reach his temple, his eyelids, the corner of his mouth. Her silver hair tumbles over them like a curtain, shutting out all the pain that lies beyond. _

_ Her body lies all the way up against his, her sweet breath is on his neck. Behind the contour of her breast, her heart pounds in time with his own.  _

_ How many times has he awakened alone with this awful wanting still in him, curling in on himself to stifle that insatiable ache, to bury that cavern she leaves behind? _

_ Perhaps if he puts her arms around her he can pull her inside, so tightly their forms will meld into one. They can fall asleep in one another like this, and never awaken, never speak to another soul again. _

_ But he keeps absolutely still, terrified that if he reaches for her, he will find only air, and the dream will end.  _

Do you not love me?

_ He knows the Idril before him is no more real than the dream, knows he will awaken humiliated and alone. And yet he moves his tongue to answer her.  _

_ “I love you, Idril Celebrindal. I love you since I met you, I love you until the end of all things. Once I thought we were the same, you and I: the two halfling grandchildren of Fingolfin. Your mother of the Vanyar, and my father of the Teleri. But how wrong I was; how different we are. Your halves are harmony, and mine are discord. You are of the sky and wind; and I for my defects I am doomed to be buried beneath the cold earth for eternity; yet your breath is all I want to breathe; your music is all I want to hear. I would fight the  _ Nirnaeth  _ a hundred times over for you, Idril. I would die a hundred deaths to spend another day by your side.” _

_ Idril does not reply, but points toward their reflections in the pool. Her silver hair darkens to black, her nose lengthens ever so slightly. She is Idril no more, but Aredhel. They are not sitting by the fountain, but at the edge of a precipice under a bloodred sky.  _

_ A black javelin protrudes from her chest, from which blood trickles onto her dress, onto his hands. Her face grows sunken, her eyes shrivel away, and she pitches backward. He throws her arms around her and finds only air; he watches her body shrinking down into the void. _

_ “Mama!” _

Maeglin awakened, shivering, to the sound of his own scream in the dark.


	16. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Maeglin's time in Angband.

The first thing he felt was the cold.

He was facedown against stone, and he felt the chill of moving air directly on his bare skin. He was naked, then, concealed only by darkness. He welcomed it. The darkness, surely, was preferable to whatever would come to disperse it.

Instinctively he tried to move his limbs around his body for warmth, and realized then that his wrists and ankles were restrained in metal. He tugged experimentally and found that there was not a single bit of give in these shackles at all, and that he was immobilized completely, unable to move more than an inch or so to either side.

He lay there in the dark, waiting for something to happen. It was so awful, this waiting, the not knowing whether it would be minutes, hours, or even days. At times he caught himself wishing for the sound of an iron door clanging open, or the footsteps of his captors to give him some inkling of his fate. But he dispelled these thoughts quickly. He did not want them to come. He did not want to see their faces.

Would they let him die of thirst or starvation? Surely not, or they would have killed him already.  _ No _ , he knew already,  _ I am to be tortured _ .

Then he thought:  _ I'm alone. All alone, at last. _

The gentle clink of his chains made him realize he was trembling. Why had he not listened to Glorfindel, and stayed in Gondolin?

A pang of mingled love and regret gripped his insides at the thought of Glorfindel. He should never have parted ways with him in the field of arrows. Or else he should have turned his mare straight back around when they exited the Seven Gates, galloped up to the House of the Golden Flower, and run straight into his arms, vowing never to leave him again.

_ What a good life I had _ , he thought sadly,  _ and what a good friend. If I had known then how lucky I was _ . His tears pooled beneath his cheek upon the indifferent stone.

In darkness, he waited.

After another long while, he heard the heavy metal grate slide open. They had come at last.

Two sets of shuffling footsteps, two rough voices, coming closer. A torch on the wall crackled to life, and he saw his surroundings for the first time. The room was smaller than he had imagined. He craned his neck to see two orcs standing over him. Their uniforms were crusted with old blood. They did not look at him.

"Just look at it," said the first orc, who was missing an ear, "Built like a fucking bird."

Maeglin realized that 'it' referred to him.

"It's a pretty one," chortled the second. He reached down and ran his filthy hand along Maeglin's flank. "Skin like fucking alabaster. Can barely tell the sexes apart on these."

He gripped Maeglin's hipbone and used it as a handle to twist him onto his back. The shackles dug into his wrists. The orc sniggered like a schoolchild at what he saw.

"There we go, so it's a boy elf. Not quite as fun, but--"

The one-eared orc suddenly seized the other by the scruff of the neck and threw him forcefully into the wall.

"Mention  _ that _ again and I'll gut you, you sick fuck," he snarled, "It's a prisoner who can give us information, not a toy for your amusement."

The second orc slunk back into the darkness, glowering. Maeglin blinked. Whoever heard of an orc with morals?

"Do you have a name?" asked the one-eared orc. His tone was gruff, but not nasty. Maeglin kept his mouth pointedly shut.

The orc rolled his yellow eyes.

"All right, I don't care. I'll call you Blackbird. That's what you remind me of. Listen, Blackbird. Tell us what we need to know and we'll let you go. You may as well do it now. Everyone cracks eventually, and you'll leave with more of yourself intact this way, if you catch my drift."

Maeglin strained to turn his head and look steadily into his captor's eyes.

"Don't do this," he said.

There was no trace of mercy in the orc's face.

"It's not up to me," he replied, "Now, I'll ask this just once, nicely: what is the way into Gondolin?"

Maeglin bit his lips and braced himself. The orc lifted his glowing whip high overhead and brought it snaking down on the elf's exposed back. A searing agony rent him apart, tore through his back like a tongue of flame. Never had he felt pain like this in his life. The cry of raw suffering that escaped him was beyond his control.

Ø

The days and nights were no more, but only an eon of pain punctuated by delirious oblivion. He would be dragged from his cell by his hair, still bound. His shirt, saturated with dried blood, was torn from his back, opening the half-healed scars anew.

They laid their whips on him as he lay facedown, and they plunged him into freezing wastewater and held him under, until he no longer knew who he was, or where, and his head filled with screams that might have been his own. He would lapse out of consciousness, and they would take him back to his cell. He awakened to force-feedings.

Whether this went on for weeks, or for months, he could not remember. He had lost track of time, and lost track of what was broken, what was healing. The only marker of each passing day was the creaking of his cell door, opening and closing.

He heard this familiar sound today, and awaited the inevitable.

Instead, he was pulled to standing by two rough sets of hands. He grimaced in pain with the movement.

"Lucky for you today, Blackbird," said his tormentor, "The Master sent for you. He grows tired of your insolence."

He had confessed his identity to the orcs long ago, but this particular orc still insisted on his nickname.

Maeglin said nothing as he was led stumbling from his cell, through the dungeons of Angband, up spiraling stairs. Twice or more he fell to his knees, gasping. Each breath he took nauseated him with the pain from his bruised ribs. On the third flight, his legs gave way and he could rise no more.

Cursing, the orc slung him over one shoulder as though he were a slaughtered lamb, and thus he was carried to the throne of Morgoth and deposited in a heap at his feet.

As he lay on the floor, gasping feebly for breath, he heard Morgoth speak for the first time.

"And just what have you manage to extricate from our guest, so far?"

Maeglin had not expected the voice of the Dark One to sound like this: low, sweet, enticing. Yet although the voice was little more than a whisper, the room grew so quiet when he spoke that he could hear every word.

"Thus far, he has informed us of the names of eleven of the Twelve Lords of Gondolin, my Lord," said the one-eared orc, "We have not been able to persuade him to tell of of the whereabouts of Gondolin."

" _ Eleven _ of the Twelve?" Morgoth pressed silkily.

"Yes, my Lord," chimed in the other orc, who was skinny and kyphotic, "I assure you the methods we used were no less… extreme than you can imagine. Any more and he may have bled to death."

Morgoth then turned his attention to the many wounds on Maeglin's back, made a sucking noise with his tongue when he saw what they had done to his shoulder.

"Oh, you animals," he lamented, "You've ruined him. Crippled him. And all for nothing. I know the name of the Twelfth lord. That's Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. How could I forget him from the last great war? He killed two of my commanders and blinded a third. I must remember to pay back that debt…"

Maeglin tried to rise, could do no better than kneeling.

"You'll never reach him," he said. His voice was was so weak he didn't recognize it, "Not while I still live."

"My, how noble you've been," chuckled Morgoth, "How very brave. And why? The Noldor have not been kind to you, have they? They made you grovel for their approval, didn't they? So much for those wise, noble, pretty elves… how cruelly they made you suffer. I don't like to hurt you like this. You're like us. Don't you know that? Just say the word, and we would welcome you with open arms."

"I'm nothing like you," said Maeglin quietly.

"Maeglin, Maeglin," sighed Morgoth in a fawning tone, "You're lying to yourself. You've lied to yourself your whole life. You've always known you had a darkness inside you. Something wrong, something broken, something foul. How fiercely you tried to purge yourself of it in those early days. But you could not, of course."

Maeglin said nothing. Morgoth was right.

"And so you tried to hide it away, didn't you, kept all that darkness under siege with your love for that boy. What a romantic you are! But as we have seen… no siege can last forever, no Siege can contain darkness."

There were hisses of assent from the goblins crouched in the eaves.

"Listen to me, Maeglin," Morgoth continued. His voice had taken on a soothing, almost shimmering quantity, "Just imagine it: you and I, side by side, Kings of Darkness. I'll even spare Glorfindel's life, if you wish it. We will start by making them pay for everything they've done to you."

Through Maeglin's mind flashed the image of his father, struggling against the hands of Turgon's guards as they cast him over the wall. He saw the children who looked away as he walked past, remembered Idril's expression of utter loathing for him, heard the whispers about him at the market, the mistrust.

"We would create beautiful things, you and I. Together, we will create jewels even more beautiful and powerful than the Silmarils. We will forge great and terrible weapons, invincible swords imbibed in magic."

In his mind's eye, Maeglin saw these jewels, bursting with the light of the sun and stars. He saw grand devices take form, even more miraculous than the Palantir. He saw an innumerable army under his command, wielding swords that shattered  _ mithril _ as easily as if it were a film of ice on a pond. His would be not only Gondolin, but all the lands of Arda, everything his heart desired. He need only reach out, and take it for himself: no more fear, no more loneliness, only power. He would roam Arda as he pleased, beholden to no one.

"You were saying a name over and over in your sleep, they say. 'Idril', was it? You desire her above all else in the world, do you not? Tell me, tell me the truth: what would it be like if she were yours, for even a single day?"

"Like sunshine," murmured Maeglin, "After an eternal winter. Like water, after a hundred years in the desert."

"Well, she would be yours, my brother, my dear: your queen, your servant, whatever you wish. Imagine what you would do to her… if she could not refuse you!"

Maeglin's eyes snapped open as Morgoth's spell broke. He had imagined Idril, taken by some dark enchantment, lowering the front of her gown for him, her eyes dead and her spirit gone. He imagined her standing by his side like a puppet, imagined making love to the cold echo of her body, possessing the lifeless shadow of the woman he loved precisely because she was full of fire, and life, and freedom.

His stomach turned at the thought that he had even entertained the notion. All of Morgoth's promises came crashing down around him like the false facades they were.

"Go fuck yourself," he said, wearily.

The skinny orc clubbed him on the back with the handle of his mace. Maeglin fell forward, striking stone with his chest. A jet of bright blood flew from his mouth.

Maeglin heard the swing of Morgoth's blade, a heavy thunk as something fell to the ground, and then his attacker's screams.

" _ Idiot _ ," screeched Morgoth, "You could have killed him!"

Maeglin rolled over and saw the latest victim of Morgoth's wrath, clutching at the stump of meat and bone where his right arm had been, blubbering in shock.

"Take him back to his cell," said Morgoth, his patience gone, "And if any of you kills him, every one of you shall suffer tremendously."

ø

When Maeglin awoke, he was no longer alone. He blinked several times, staring at the blurry stranger, who was neither man, nor orc, or elf, but smaller, and big-eyed. It was a human child, a small brown-skinned boy.

"Who are you?" asked the stranger in the Common Tongue, echoing the question in Maeglin's own mind. Maeglin heard fear in the voice, and realized what he must look like, covered in filth and blood.

"My name is Maeglin," he replied as gently as he could, "I shall not hurt you."

"My-gleen," repeated the boy, mangling the delicate Elvish syllables, "I'm Jack. From Westrath."

"Well met, Jack," said Maeglin, confused still, "What is one such as yourself doing in Angband?"

"I was captured!" cried Jack, "Me and my brother Jon was running around in the hills, and  _ they _ found us. The orcs. 'Run Jon,' I said, 'I'll distract them.' So Jon got away, and I threw a stone to get them going, and then I took off fast as I could but they saw me."

He paused, catching his breath. "Then they brought me to this place."

He looked around and then said anxiously, "Where are we?"

"We are in Angband," he said, seeing no reason to lie to the child, "The fortress of the dark Valar, Morgoth."

"Oh," said the boy, "Well, then we better escape."

Why Morgoth had captured a poor common mortal boy and brought him all the way to Angband was beyond Maeglin's imagination. But it could not bode well. He sat up, but grunted in pain at the effort.

"You're hurt!" cried Jack, and rushed to the elf's side. He placed his small brown hand on Maeglin's arm.

"I'm fine," he lied, and managed to pull himself up against the cell wall. "But I must say I do not see a way out for us at the present."

Jack sighed. "I guess not," he said, and sat down, cross-legged, next to him.

"Where do you come from, My-gleen?" he asked.

Maeglin cleared his dry and bloody throat, still unused to speaking to a friendly soul.

"I am an elf. I come from a city called Gondolin."

"Gondolin!" exclaimed Jack, "I've heard of it! I thought it was just one of Grandpapa's stories, that  _ his _ grandpapa told him. He said the walls are made of diamonds, and all the trees are tall, and grow apples of real gold. All who dwell there are fair and pure of heart. And the most beautiful princess lives there, forever young, with the sweetest soul in all the world."

Smiling faintly, Maeglin replied, "Your Grandpapa spoke the truth. I have met the princess, and she is as lovely as they say. Wise also, and brave. When she laughs, the sun comes out even in the dead of winter. And when she cries, the world turns cold, and none in this world can be happy."

Jack sidled up to him, craving warmth.

"Were you in love with her, My-gleen?"

Maeglin closed his eyes. The words he now spoke transported him to the soft world of the past, the one he had left behind across a desolate plain of suffering.

"I was," he said, "I loved her. And I love her still."

"When we get to Gondolin," said Jack, "I would like to meet the princess. The one you love. And we will tell her how we escaped from Angband and Morgoth and all the orcs, and she'll want to marry you. I know it. And maybe she will let my Mama and Papa and Jon come to Gondolin too, even though they're people, not elves."

As he said this, Jack remembered his poor Mama and Papa, miles away in a poor fishing village, and his small face crumpled as the tears came. He sobbed into Maeglin's shoulder. Maeglin wanted to comfort him, but his arms were still bound.

"So it shall be, Jack," he said, "When we are freed, I shall take you back to Gondolin. And we will ride our finest stallions to your home in Westrath, where your Mama and Papa and Jon live. You shall have a horse too. And we shall bring them all back with us, your aunts and uncles and Grandpapa and the rest. They will all want for nothing, for they need only to shake the branches of the trees, and the gold apples will fall, and they shall have whatever they wish from the Great Market, and none of you will want for anything, ever again."

Jack's crying abated as he pondered this. "I would name my horse Arrow," he said, “Because he would be black, and run very fast. Or maybe Flame, if he were red." He yawned.

"I want to sleep, My-gleen. But I can't. It's too dark here. I'm frightened."

"Jack," Maeglin whispered into the boy's ear, "Do you know what your Mama's voice sounds like? Close your eyes. Can you remember her face, her scent, her touch?"

Jack squeezed his eyes shut.

"I can," he said, "I remember."

"Remember the way she comforted you when you were young. Remember her hands on your face. Remember how she spoke to you before you went to bed, and you knew you were safe, that there was nothing she wouldn't protect you from."

"I remember," said Jack, "I remember…"

Before long, he was asleep, curled up in Maeglin's lap.

For two days, perhaps more, he and Jack had each other's company in the small cell. The orcs did not come to torment him any more. Twice a day, a hatch would open, and some maggoty bread and stew would be shoved in. Maeglin would eat a little, so as not to worry Jack, but left as much as he could for the boy. 

On the third day, he awoke, and Jack was gone.

ø

Maeglin did not protest when the orcs came for him. They did not say a word to him this time, but pushed him through the cell door, the sunless halls, up all the steps once again to where Morgoth sat on his dark throne. He was able to see the Dark One in full this time.

The sight sent a chill to his very core: he was tall, twice or three times the size of an elf, and armored all in iron spikes. He wore an iron helmet shaped like the skull of a beast, behind which his face was covered by shadow. Evil emanated from his being as though he were the meaning of the word, so far had the twisted Valar strayed from his creator.

" _ Maeglin _ ," he chuckled, "It has been too long. Did you like the mortal whelp I sent to keep you company? I never wanted you to be lonely!"

He gestured with his iron claw of a hand, and the door to the throne room opened. Two orc-guards walked in, holding between them a struggling captive. Maeglin knew even before looking that it would be Jack.

"Perhaps," said Morgoth, "You wondered why little Jack here was sent to you. You see, Jack doesn't live in a grand elf-city with stone walls, hidden in the mountains. No, Jack lives in a poor fishing village, with his Papa and Mama, and I know exactly where it is. Exactly."

Maeglin's heart turned to ice, his spirit completely extinguished by the depth of Morgoth's cruelty.

"You see, Jack's village of goats and fish shit means nothing to me, and I would gladly let my eye pass over it, set upon loftier goals. But if you continue to withhold from me the location of Gondolin, why, I will not hesitate to send my orcs there, beating down the door to his poor old Grandpapa's house, capturing his poor Mama, and killing little Jon and all of the children. I will burn down every last miserable little hovel. And when I am finished, I will start on the next village, and then next after. There is no dearth of innocent life for me to take."

As he said this, Jack managed to free one arm from the grasp of his captors, and with it tore the gag from his mouth.

"Don't listen to him, My-gleen!" he squealed, "Don't tell him anything!"

He was quickly restrained, and his mouth covered; still he fought, his small body squirming. Morgoth appeared to stroke his chin with one curved, metal-clad finger.

"Perhaps a demonstration will be helpful," he said, and then to the orcs: "Kill it."

Maeglin watched dumbly as one of the orcs brought his axe down squarely on Jack's chest, and it caved in like a house of sticks. He pulled the weapon out with a protracted sucking noise, and Jack of Westrath fell to the ground, dead.

There were tears streaming down Maeglin's face, but he was too far gone, too broken now to notice. He watched as the orcs picked up Jack's small, limp form by the scruff of the neck and throw it across the floor, so it slid to the center of the throne room, leaving a dark, thick trail of the dead boy's blood.

"Do you understand?" whispered Morgoth.

Maeglin nodded slowly.

Then he let out a soft, wondering laugh. It was so clear to him now, where Morgoth's power came from: it was his complete lack of compassion, of pity, of any of the values that fettered the children of Ilúvatar. How naïvely had he tried to please all of them, to be good. And how much easier it was to let go of such ridiculous notions as love, sacrifice, faith.

"I understand," he said. A dreamlike smile crept across his face, "I understand everything."

"Yes," said Morgoth ecstatically, " _ Yes _ . Maeglin, my blood, my heir, my little Crown Prince."

He turned and addressed the assembled orcs in the throne room.

"Did you not hear me? You are in the presence of a Prince. Does that title please you, Maeglin? It's not too childish, too gaudy? Good. Bow before him, you fools. You will answer to him now, as you would to me."

Silently, every orc in the room sank to one knee.

"Bring me the boy," said Maeglin, nodding at the orc closest to Jack's body.

"Yes, Prince," said the orc at once, picking up the child he had just murdered with the tenderness of a parent.

Maeglin wiped the blood and dirt off of Jack's face, rocked him as though he were sleeping, and again laughed, softly, to himself as he thought of the life before him now. He was sorry little Jack had to die to teach him this beautiful, vital lesson, but it was worth it. No more hurting, no more shame, no more guilt, no more grief. So blissful it was, not to feel. The sense of freedom that filled him was simply exhilarating.


	17. Twilight

“We’re losing him. I can’t find the pulse anymore.”

Gilwen glanced over to where Tiromer was standing with his fingers beneath Maeglin’s jaw. 

“How does he feel?”

“Clammy,” said Tiromer grimly, “I’m going to tourniquet his legs. We don’t have much time.”

Maeglin shifted restlessly from where he lay facedown on her study table. His skin looked paler every moment, the blue mottling more pronounced. Gilwen drew up a measure of clear serum out of its vial into a long, hollow needle.

“Is that  _ ephedra _ ?” asked Tiromer as he wrapped sheets of linen tightly around Maeglin’s legs.

“No-- purified sheep adrenal glands.”

She appeared not to notice his disgusted expression as she squeezed Maeglin’s limp forearm and emptied the belly of the syringe into his vein. His eyes flew open and he screamed in agony.

“I know, I know,” said Gilwen hurriedly, “You’re with me, Maeglin, you’re going to be fine. We’re going to take care of you. I need you to drink some water, all right?”

She held the bottle to his lips and steadied his head. He took a few weak sips and stopped, exhausted.

“More, Maeglin. Keep going, keep drinking. That’s it, well done.”

Maeglin continued to gulp down the green-tinted liquid obediently. A trace of color had returned to his cheeks.

“Make sure he keeps drinking,” said Gilwen to Tiromer, “I’m going to debride his wounds.”

“What, now?” asked Tiromer incredulously, “Can’t we wait until he stabilizes?”

“We’re not doing him favors by waiting. He’s already in septic shock, he’ll only get worse.”

Around them lay piles of bandages, hot water, ointments and solutions, heaps of kingsfoil. Gilwen’s silver instruments were spread neatly across a wooden bench.

In front of her was the unrecognizable ruin of Maeglin’s back. It resembled nothing less than the pulp that might remain after a butcher’s stand was pillaged by crows. There was very little left there of normal human skin. Gouges, scars, and bruises left by every possible instrument extended from the base of his neck all the way down to his waist, and the skin in between these wounds was black and purple.

Her stomach turned at the sight of his right shoulder blade, where a swath of skin was simply missing altogether. Beefy edges of muscle protruded, fraying, from beneath. There wasn’t much of that she would be able to salvage. Quickly, she diverted her attention to the more pressing matter: the areas of rotted, dead flesh, the flesh she would have to dig away to keep his infection from worsening.

“What the fuck  _ happened  _ to him?” hissed Tiromer, echoing the question in Gilwen’s own mind. 

“We’ll ask questions later. Maeglin, I won’t lie to you, this is going to hurt. A lot. I’ll try to go as fast as I can, but the less you struggle, the better. Tiromer, hold his hands. Talk to him.”

Tiromer obeyed, kneeling on the ground so his face was level with Maeglin’s, enveloping his freezing fingers with his own. Gilwen selected a medium-sized curette from the bench. She held her breath, gritted her teeth, and scraped the instrument across Maeglin’s back, tearing through the putrid and dying tissue.

As expected, Maeglin screamed in agony, burying his face into the bloodstained pillow, gripping Tiromer’s hands so hard that all four sets of their knuckles turned bone white. Tiromer pressed his forehead against Maeglin’s, murmuring a constant stream of reassurance into his ear.

“Stay with me, Maeglin, concentrate on my voice alone. It will all be over soon, it’s all right. Listen to my voice,” he said. There was anguish on his gentle face; he hated to witness pain. 

As rapidly as she could, Gilwen scoured the curette through Maeglin’s wounds, unburying the living, bleeding flesh. He began to thrash about blindly in pain.

“Stop--” groaned Maeglin, “Please-- please stop--”

“Hold him down,” shouted Gilwen, shutting her ears to his pleas. The best thing she could do for him was to be quick, and to be thorough.

“He needs more morphine,” said Tiromer, his hands tight around Maeglin’s wrists. Gilwen looked at him beseechingly.

“I don’t know-- I’ve given him so much already, I’m worried he’ll stop breathing--”

“Give him more!” screamed Tiromer, “I’ll breathe for him if I have to, for fuck’s sake, give him more.”

Gilwen complied, throwing down her curette to draw up a generous measure of the drug and plunge the needle once more into Maeglin’s vein.

It took fifteen minutes to eradicate all of the rotted tissue with the curette. For all of them, it felt like hours. She paused only for Tiromer to give Maeglin more infused water. At last, she threw the curette down. She had done all that she could do.

The skin on Maeglin’s back was raw and bleeding. She cleaned his wounds one last time with a rag imbued with antiseptic, applied a thick green dressing, and then bound his entire chest with several layers of clean linen bandages. He lay facedown, breathing shallowly, too drugged and exhausted to scream anymore. 

She knelt down next Tiromer and stroked Maeglin’s cheek.

“I’m sorry, my dear one,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

“You sadistic bitch,” he choked out, and then mercifully fainted from the ordeal.

ø

Three hours before, Gilwen had been reading at her desk when she heard a strange sound from outside her study door: the whinny of a horse. She had opened the door, found him lying on the front steps. The mare Mothwing pranced beside him anxiously. Mothwing was shaggy and unkempt, sticks and mud in her mane, and her bridle cutting into the corners of her soft black mouth. She looked as though she had been neglected for weeks.

When Gilwen examined him, his skin had been so hot she drew her hand away instinctively. He had been weak, raving unintelligibly. Without wasting another second, she had mounted Mothwing and hurried to find Tiromer.

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Maeglin slept now on his side on a pallet on the floor still in the study. There was an unrestful frown on his face. 

She gently washed the rest of his body with a warm rag. He was thin, she noted, running the cloth over his protruding hipbone, so very thin. She feared the answers to the questions she harbored. Looking across the makeshift bed at Tiromer’s shadowed face, she knew he was wondering the same.

“Can I trust you, Tiromer?” she asked, “You shall tell no one what you have seen.”

“What am I supposed to think, Gilwen?” he said, “What in Nienna’s name could have happened, besides--?”

“I don’t know,” Gilwen replied wearily, “Tiromer, I never did thank you for all of your help today.”

He looked confused.

“Of course,” he said, “I know that you would do the same for me. I’m just glad we weren’t too late.”

Gilwen put aside her washcloth and came closer to him, bending down, and letting her hand drift down to his forearm. Subtly, his breath quickened at her touch, and he looked up at her, his next thought forgotten. Gilwen leaned in and whispered in his ear, so that her lips just brushed the angle of his jaw.

“Could I ask you to do just one more thing for me today, Tiromer?”

“Anything,” he breathed, “What is it?”

“I would like you to forget everything you’ve seen.”

“What?”

She swiftly jabbed the hidden needle into his arm. A look of betrayal flashed across his face before his eyelids drifted shut and he went limp in his chair. He would wake up later that day sitting by the fountains, thinking he had just taken a particularly replenishing nap.

ø

Maeglin slept for three days straight, uneasily. When she could, she tipped some herbal stew down his throat. His pulse was weak and fast, and she knew even in his half-conscious state, his wounds pained him still. Her heart ached with pity. She wished that she could lay her hands on him, draw out his suffering as though it were a poison, and take it inside herself.

On the fourth day, he started to moan and writhe where he lay, crying out at some unseen anguish. Gilwen went to him, and took his clenched fists in her hands.

“You are with me, Lómion,” she whispered to him, “You are safe.”

_ Lómion _ . This was the name she knew him as when he was a child wandering the forests of Nan Elmoth. It was the name his mother Aredhel had given him as she lay back, exhausted, after his birth, when Gilwen herself had been little more than a girl herself. 

Aredhel had named him for the dark, misty place she now lived, away from her home and kin: Lómion, Son of Twilight. He had been almost thirteen when his father had given him a second name, the one he now used: Maeglin, for the sharp gleam of his eyes. In her heart, Gilwen remembered him as a child, wearing a linen frock that was too big, solemn and quiet except for the rare instances he erupted in his magical laughter, instances she had always treasured.

Gilwen looked down and realized Maeglin’s eyes were open, and he was blinking up at her lucidly. She jumped back, overjoyed.

“You’re awake,” she said breathlessly, “Give me a moment, I’m going to get you some water.”

“Wait,” he said, in a voice feebler than a whisper, “Wait, Gilly. Don’t go yet.”

Gilwen sat back down on the ground beside where he lay. Maeglin attempted to push himself to sitting, but even this small movement caused him to pant through a grimace of pain.

“Slowly, Maeglin. Let me help you.” 

He held onto her shoulders as she pulled him to a seated position. His forehead was shining with sweat at the exertion. 

“How do you feel?” asked Gilwen. Maeglin tilted his head and thought it over.

“Better than I was,” he said.

“That’s not saying much.”

“No,” he agreed, “Gilly, how badly am I hurt? Tell me the truth.”

“I had hoped to have this conversation with you when you were feeling a little better,” said Gilwen uncertainly, “I wanted to wait until you had some of your strength back.”

Maeglin sighed.

“I’m never going to be a smith again, am I?”

Gilwen looked away.

“I won’t say never,” she said, “But when you came to me, there was almost nothing left of your shoulder. You’re quite lucky, in fact, that the wound is on its way to healing.”

She knew there was nothing lucky about the situation at all, and regretted saying so. She forced herself to look back at him, bracing herself for his grief. But he only nodded, with a strange, faraway expression on his face.

“Ah, well,” he said, “I suppose that doesn’t really matter in the end.”

“Maeglin,” she said, “It  _ does _ matter. It would matter to me if I were you. You don’t have to talk about it now, but you know I’m here if you ever need.”

He nodded silently, still with that strange, detached gaze.

“I think I’d like some more morphine now, Gilly,” he said expressionlessly.

“Very well,” she agreed, “But you have to eat a little first.”

She gave him some herbed stew, and then, as promised, slipped the needle into his vein. She cradled his head as it lolled back, and he drifted into a trancelike state.

“Would you tell me a story, Gilly?” Maeglin slurred, “Like you used to, when you put me to bed?” 

He was giggling slightly, no doubt a result of the morphine coursing through him. Gilwen thought for a moment as she stroked his hair, rocking him gently as his eyes misted over. Then she began to tell a story.

Ø

_ I must preface this tale, my dear one, by saying in the old days, the holiest of all numbers was Two. Two Trees of Valinor. Two great lands, Arda and Aman. Earth and Sky, Night and Day, Man and Woman. The children of Ilúvatar, of course, introduced other holy numbers into the fold: Three Silmarils, Seven Sons, and so forth. But in the beginning, the only number with any significance was Two.  _

_ There lived a hero once, in a faraway land, not so different from the Arda we know. He was brave, our hero, loyal, and pure of heart. Everywhere he went, he protected the innocent, for he was skilled in the arts of war and many others. _

_ But our hero was plagued by one thing that darkened all his victories and burdened all his travels: everywhere he went, a monstrous creature followed after him. This monster had great black wings, glowing eyes, tusks and horns both, an ugly maw filled with innumerable daggers for teeth. With whiplike whiskers he would ensnare innocent people and devour them. There was nowhere our hero could go without this beast lurking just a few leagues behind him, like a deadly shadow. _

_ “Enough is enough,” thought the hero one day, “This creature will surely hound me until the end of my days. Tomorrow I will wait for him on the mountaintop alone until he finds me, and I will kill him or die in the attempt.” _

_ On the back of his white steed, he galloped to the top of the highest mountain on the horizon. There he waited three days for his nemesis to find him. On the fourth day, at high noon, he heard the roar of the beast, and knew the time had come at last.  _

_ For a full day they dueled on the precipice.  _

_ Although our hero was quick and strong with his gleaming sword, the beast was just as quick and as strong, and could not be bested this way.  _

_ The hero tried his enchantments, magic spells he had learned from wizards, but although they took the monster by surprise, the beast had magic of its own, and broke free of these bonds too.  _

_ Finally, the hero found that the beast was capable of speech, and challenged him to a test of wit, a game of riddles and deception. But lo and behold, the monster was just as cunning as he, and guessed the answers to all of his riddles before they were even out of his mouth. _

_ At last, the hero realized they had reached a stalemate, and he cast down his arms and withdrew his enchantments. _

_ “Who are you?” he asked the monster in exasperation, “Why have you chosen to plague me thus? Who sent you, and why?” _

_ The monster laughed a terrible laugh. _

_ “Don’t you know me, noble hero? I’ve known you since you were very young. You never saw me, but I was always there, protecting you. I was little then, and you didn’t notice me, perhaps. I chased away your schoolyard bullies. I interposed my body between you and the grown-ups who would harm you. And as you grew older, I loved you so much that I devoured every sorrow, every pain the world sent your way.  _

_ You never knew. You never thanked me. But with every anguish of yours I ate, I grew stronger, wickeder, and more cunning. Still I wanted nothing more than to serve you, to keep you safe, and to be with you. But you cursed at me, you ran from me. I’m all alone now, a horrible, ugly, monster. And how I hate you. There is nothing more I want but to destroy us both, here, together. _

_ So saying, the beast pawed the ground with his cloven feet, lowered its horned head and charged toward the hero standing defenseless on the precipice. But the monster stopped short before he could touch the hero, for in the depths of his black heart, he still loved the boy he had protected long ago. _

_ Seeing this, the hero walked cautiously toward the monster and wrapped his arms around that ghastly visage. He placed kisses over its glowing eyes and let his tears run down the cruel, curved tusks.  _

_ And then a marvelous thing happened. The wretched beast gave a great sigh, as if in pain. His horns and tusks and whiskers shrank away, hooves softened, and black feathers rained down around them as each fell from skin like an autumn leaf.  _

_ Some say that was the end of the beast, and at the end of all this, our hero stood amidst a great field of black feathers, triumphant after conquering his nemesis.  _

_ Others say the beast shrank down to the size of a cat, small enough to carry in the hero’s arms, and became quite tame, and the two of them became friends, and traveled together until the end of their days. _

_ Others still say that the beast transformed into a being not so different from the hero himself. And the hero embraced his double, and thanked him, and kissed his mouth, and the two became one.  _

_ In either case, there was only one person who walked down the mountain that day, and he was forever changed.  _

Ø

Maeglin’s eyelids were halfway closed. The hollows under his brows had become more pronounced because of how thin he had become, the skin almost translucent.

“That was a nice story,” he said sleepily, “What did you say the hero’s name was, Gilly…?”

But he was asleep before he could hear the answer. Gilwen put her lips on his forehead and laid him back down on his clean pillow.

“His name was Lómion,” she said, “And I love him more than anything.”

Ø

He was sitting up in bed when she brought his breakfast in the next day. He looked better today, stronger. And his fever had not returned. It was a reassuring sign.

“Gilwen,” he asked her, “I could have sworn Tiromer was here the other day. He was holding my hands and talking to me, wasn’t he?”

Gilwen nodded. She had been waiting for him to ask.

“You needn’t worry about him,” she said, “I slipped him an injection of  _ serum oblivium _ . A quick jab into the shoulder. It causes the subject to lose all memory of the past week or so, remembering it only as a vague, forgettable dream. I’ll show you.”

She put her tray down behind her and produced a vial of liquid from her pocket, which she handed to him. Then she turned her back to pick the tray back up from where she left it. 

Suddenly, there was a sharp, pinching sensation in her left shoulder. She dropped the tray and crumpled to her knees. The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was Maeglin’s hand setting the now-emptied needle back on the table.


	18. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on in Gondolin and Maeglin begins to ponder his terrible deed. Those closest to him suspect something is the matter, but it may be too late.

The waterfall had died. It had shrunk down to a brown trickle, and the pool below into a fetid mire. The whine of insect swarms had replaced the roar of tumbling water.

As Maeglin approached, the Crebain were already waiting: a flock of jackdaw-like birds with sunken, phlegmy eyes. Some of them plunged their ugly beaks into the mud, searching for frogs. Others preened their greasy feathers. Their squawks were low and mournful, and reminiscent of decay.

Their leader, who was turkey-sized, flapped over and perched on a branch near Maeglin’s face. He was named Flayback, for the featherless strip that ran from the nape of his neck down to his tail. His flight and landing were ungainly, as though he were made of misfit parts barely working together to form a winged thing. 

“Did you bring us anything?” asked Flayback, clicking his beak expectantly.

Maeglin retrieved some stale _ lembas _ from his pocket. There were caws of disgust and dismay from the Crebain.

“What in Morgoth’s name is that? We want something bloody--”

“Yes, something bloody, something that was alive--”

Maeglin rolled his eyes. He raised his longbow, aimed into the treetops, and shot into a rustling patch of leaves. There was a squeaking scream, and a pair of squirrels plummeted from the trees onto the dirt, still writhing. 

The Crebain cheered raucously and rustled toward the carcasses in an ugly black swarm.

“Thank you, Prince.”

“You’re good to us.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Flayback turned his tail toward the flock and addressed Maeglin.

“What news, Prince?”

Maeglin’s lip curled. He despised the title.

“Not much. The Council convenes tomorrow. Water has been scarce this season, and with it grain. The emergency provision may need to be consumed.”

Flayback bobbed his head. A whitish membrane briefly slithered out to cover both of his eyes. 

“Anything else?”

“No. Excuse me-- yes. Celebrimbor has begun work on a new stone, a gem after the fashion of the Silmarils. The Elessar, he has called it, or the Evenstar. It will be a precious and powerful thing. Worth saving from the sack.”

The Crebain arranged his beak into what looked like a grin.

“Oh, my. That sounds so very _ shiny _.”

Maeglin smiled humorlessly. 

“Very shiny indeed. It must be seen to that the Elessar falls into our hands.”

“Yes, Prince. Very good.”

From behind them, near the pool, there was a sudden shriek from one of the other Crebain. In the scuffle for meat, his eye had been pecked out, and hung comically from the socket by a slimy cord. The others advanced upon him, and he gurgled, terrified, knowing he had become food. Carelessly, Maeglin raised his bow again and loosed another arrow, swiftly putting the creature out of its misery. The Crebain shuffled and cawed, welcoming the continued feast.

“That will be all, Flayback. And tell the others to stop perching on the Fountains. Or Ecthelion, the prick, is bound to notice something.”

He turned and walked back toward his mare. But as he reached for Mothwing’s bridle, she pranced skittishly away from him. Maeglin frowned. She had never acted this way before.

He swiftly caught her reins, but as he did so, her head suddenly snaked out, and she bit him, hard, on the arm. Maeglin cried out in pain and wrenched savagely on her bridle. She continued to battle him, and he stroked her neck, cursing at her in soothing tones. The lingering Crebain watched the scene quietly, not daring to interfere.

At last, Mothwing let Maeglin mount her, her gray ears still pinned back in unease.

Ø

The Council were a half hour into the bi-weekly meeting on a summer day, when they would all rather have been outside in light shirts and sandals. They listened blearily, with many glances of longing towards the windows, as Lord Duilin concluded a presentation on conservation measures.

“... And thus I propose the creation of a designated subcouncil, which will meet every month, to attend to the wiser allocation of the municipal water supply in the light of the current dry spell. Thank you kindly for your attention, lords and lady.” 

“Speaking of dry spells, when’s the last time you think Lord Duilin got laid?” a bored Ecthelion whispered mischievously to Glorfindel, who scowled, and ignored him.

“A most excellent presentation, Lord Duilin,” said Turgon, who hadn’t noticed, as he glanced over the document before him, “Shall we vote? Lord Rog?”

“Aye.”

“Lord Ecthelion?”

“Nay.”

“Lord Glorfindel?”

“Aye.”

“Lord Salgant?”

Maeglin sat absolutely still in his usual place at Turgon’s left. They were all so blind to the destruction that lay ahead of them, the fools, like sheep ambling in droves over a cliff. They spoke so confidently of regulating the water supply and readjusting tax codes, so complacent in their belief that life in Gondolin, in all its mundane splendor, would continue indefinitely.

_ Facedown against filthy stone, unable to move, his world explodes in pain... _

He placed his sweating palms against the cool stone of the council room table. It was the only way to keep his hands from shaking.

_ Not knowing when they will come, not knowing what they intend to do… There are so many of them, and he is all alone. No hope of rescue. No hope of redemption. He has given each of them up, one by one. Salgant. Duilin. Ecthelion. Tuor... _

_ Stop. Master your weakness. Surrender your sniveling remorse. Do not forget the true path, the path to power. To freedom. _

The room had started to spin. The faces of the council grew dim. He was going to die, he knew it. Any moment, something terrible would happen.

_ Jack, the mortal boy, hitting the ground, his neck snapping back at an impossible angle... _

Maeglin jolted in his seat so hard that several of the others looked up at him sharply. He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar to loosen it.

_ Stop. Stop. Please stop. _

“Lord Maeglin?”

All thirteen of them were looking at him expectantly.

“Yes?”

Turgon raised an eyebrow.

“What say you to Lord Duilin’s proposition?”

He blinked and looked around, wondering how long the spell had lasted. Idril was scrutinizing the sweat on his brow, the tremor of his hands. Glorfindel was trying to catch his eye, looking increasingly concerned.

“Excuse me,” muttered Maeglin, preserving as much comportment as possible, “I… I must attend to something.”

He bowed hastily as he stood, and all but stumbled out into the hall. They all stared at the doorway Maeglin had just exited.

“Perhaps he ate something disagreeable for lunch,” offered Tuor.

“Elves don’t get ‘food poisoning’, Lord Tuor,” said Ecthelion impatiently, with a special inflection on the _ Edain _ phrase ‘food poisoning’ as though dubious such a thing even existed. He had had to explain such things to Tuor a great many times over the years, and couldn’t help but feel the mortal should have grasped this by now. 

There was a scraping sound as a second chair slid back from the table and was vacated. None of them were surprised to see Glorfindel walking out after Maeglin.

Ø

When Glorfindel made it out into the hall, Maeglin had already turned the corner. Glorfindel followed, calling his name, pleading for him to wait. 

It was the tail end of Idril’s wedding all over again. This time, however, Maeglin would not slow his pace, and would not allow Glorfindel to catch up with him. The footsteps ahead of him grew fainter and fainter. It was too late. 

Glorfindel cursed under his breath. Where would Maeglin go? What would he do? He feared the worst, as he always did when it came to Maeglin. It wasn’t fair. It was unfathomable to him why Maeglin would not simply let him help. Instead, he was always left guessing, worrying, desperately trying to save him from himself. 

Would Maeglin leave again? Would he sequester himself with his wine? Worse still, would he hurt himself?

He suddenly remembered how Maeglin had fled to the stables after his outburst at Idril’s wedding. It was worth a try. He pivoted, and started on a shortcut to the palace stables. His thoughts raced as he went. He could not say why, but his long years of experience spoke to him, and he sensed that he must find Maeglin quickly this time. In these matters, his instincts were seldom wrong. 

Sure enough, as he neared Mothwing’s stall, sounds of chaos came to him from within: the mare’s screams, the thud of hooves upon wood. Glorfindel ran up to the stall door, fumbled the latch, and thrust it open. 

Maeglin stood flat against the far wall as Mothwing went absolutely berserk, rolling her eyes and rearing if her master tried to come near. Glorfindel had never seen such feral behavior from this mare, the orphaned runt of a filly Maeglin had bottle-fed, and had spoiled so rotten she often snapped at her other handlers, but would throw her neck over the stall door and whinny joyfully when she smelled him coming near.

Glorfindel seized his chance when Mothwing spun his way. He grabbed her silk headstall and clamped his other hand quickly over her flaring nostrils, cutting off her wind. She seemed to calm slightly to his touch, and stood there with her chest heaving. 

“Get out, _ now _,” he said to Maeglin, quietly to avoid spooking the horse further. Maeglin complied, and Glorfindel released his hold on Mothwing’s head, darting out of her stall himself and shutting the latch behind him. 

“Are you all right?”

Maeglin stared back at him, uncomprehending, at first, but then nodded. Then his face went pale, and he slid precipitously down the marble wall he leaned against. Glorfindel caught him under the arms just before he was to crumple to the ground. Crudely, he slapped his fingers onto Maeglin’s neck and felt the thready and rapid pulse.

“Lean on me,” he commanded, “That’s it. Come.”

Maeglin complied, throwing one sluggish arm around Glorfindel’s shoulders. He noticed dimly how much of his weight Glorfindel was bearing, how he was being half-carried indoors, and felt a small ripple of humiliation as he realized how pathetic this must look.

The door shut behind them. Glorfindel coaxed him to sit on some sort of cool surface. Then he felt a splash of water across his face, the back of Glorfindel’s hand feeling for the the heat of his cheek before deftly loosening buttons and freeing him from his constricting collar and sleeves. Now he was sitting in underclothes drenched in sweat, gradually catching his breath.

He looked around him. They were in the empty barracks, near a row of faucets. 

Glorfindel put his hands on Maeglin’s shoulders and stared anxiously into his face. Maeglin seemed to awaken somewhat. He blinked several times, and then his eyes focused, and met Glorfindel’s. 

“I’m fine,” were the first words out of his mouth. Already he was trying to free himself from Glorfindel’s hands.

“You’re not,” snapped Glorfindel, holding him even tighter.

“Leave me,” pleaded Maeglin. 

“I won’t!” cried Glorfindel, this time with a flash of his pale blue eyes, “I love you, damn you.”

“No,” groaned Maeglin, putting his hands over his temples as if in pain. He was mostly talking to himself as he muttered, “Don’t say that, Glorfindel, don’t--”

“I wish I didn’t!” Glorfindel exploded suddenly, “Ilúvatar, sometimes I wish--”

But no. He knew he wasn’t sorry it was Maeglin he loved this much, even if it meant giving Maeglin the power to hurt him this way. Still Maeglin struggled to pull away from him. He seemed so much more frail than he should have been, or was it just Glorfindel’s imagination?

“You were wrong about me,” ranted Maeglin, “You were wrong about everything. There’s no beauty in the world. There’s no reward for your faith. Especially not in me.”

“What are you saying? What do you mean? What’s happened to you?” 

Glorfindel heard the hysteria rising in his own voice.

“I said, you thought wrong about me.”

“I _ thought, _” said Glorfindel, “That you loved me.”

At these words, a strange mask of calm overtook Maeglin’s face. 

“_ Loved you. _ Loved you. So I did. I changed for you. Do you know how sick I am of trying to be who you think I am? I bled for you. And what for? _ I loved you _. What a foolish mistake that was.”

There was no feeling in these words, only a detached weariness. It was this that brought tears to Glorfindel’s eyes. 

“And what about the pain you caused me?” Glorfindel burst out, “Haven’t I sacrificed for you too? Does it mean nothing? Of course not. You think of no one, of nothing but yourself, you bastard. You’ve always been such a selfish asshole. You’re hell-bent on drowning yourself, aren’t you, Maeglin? You can’t even go a damned week without tying some kind of noose around your own neck.”

Maeglin’s eyes gleamed in nasty triumph at the pain he heard in Glorfindel’s voice.

“Oh, Glorfindel,” he said, “Do I hear you correctly? It seems I’ve won another bet against you. Remember? You swore to ‘_ believe in me’ _. You swore your faith would be unbeaten no matter how many times I failed you. Tell me, have I proved you wrong once more? Have I quite destroyed your faith? You’re crying. How typical of you. I do believe, of the fools who love, you may very well be the weakest of them all.”

Glorfindel let go of Maeglin’s shoulders and made a sudden movement toward him. Maeglin flinched, clearly expecting Glorfindel to hit him. But instead, Glorfindel took Maeglin’s face in hands, glared at him, and then kissed him roughly on the mouth. He could taste his own tears on Maeglin’s lips. Maeglin, stunned, did not resist him.

“No,” replied Glorfindel after he had pulled away, “You’ve broken my heart, but you haven’t destroyed my faith. When you’ve realized the wrong you’ve done-- and I know you will-- I’ll be here waiting. But if you’ll forgive me, Maeglin, it hurts too much to love you at the moment.”

Glorfindel was wrong. The two of them would not speak again before Morgoth came for them, before the onslaught of war neither of them would survive. And he was wrong in claiming Maeglin had not destroyed his faith, because he had. Glorfindel was ruined, robbed of that intrinsic quality that made him who he was, just as Maeglin had been robbed of smithing by his tormentors when he had refused them in Angband, believing he had been protecting Glorfindel. The absurdity of this last fact was such that Maeglin almost started to laugh then and there.

He left. Maeglin sat in the barracks, listening to water drip into a basin, alone again. His lips were still faintly salty. Glorfindel’s breath lingered in his lungs. It was warm, and tasted like cedar and metal. The minutes ticked by.

So Glorfindel still believed in him. It stood beyond reason. There was nothing left to believe in. He had never done anything to deserve a friend like that. If such a thing could even be deserved. And how had he repaid him? By believing Morgoth’s lies. By sundering himself from love when it hurt too much to stay true. And now thousands of his mother’s kin would die, Glorfindel very likely among them.

_ What have I done? _

_ Ilúvatar, what have I done? _

Ø

Caragdûr. A bleak stretch of mountain, fifty feet across, where the slope of the rock dropped straight down into nothingness. The guards on the wall avoided looking down when they passed along it. Just a glance from the terrifying height was enough to make even the most stalwart soldier lightheaded. It was so impossibly steep, impossibly far from the ground below, it was hard to fathom why the Valar had created it except as a trap for the hapless elf who stumbled too near it, and thus careened into the abyss…

Somewhere below, Maeglin knew, lay his father’s bones. He remembered the exact spot Eöl had been thrown over on the day of his execution, the exact shape of the particular crag. He never thought he would have to find it again. But there it was: crooked and curved, distinct even in the dead of night.

Maeglin stood on the edge of Caragdûr and stared down. Wind howled over the sharp, irregular rock. He swayed. How far was the descent? For how long would he fall? He could throw a stone over, and listen for the sound it made as it hit the bottom… he could count the seconds…

There was nothing left. Nothing left of him. Nothing left of the world he knew. There was nothing more that tied him to the the rest of the Children of Ilúvatar. He bitterly thought of how complete, how enormous his failure was. 

“I’m here, Father,” he whispered down into the darkness, “A coward and a traitor, just like you. At least I’ll have the decency to throw myself over the edge, instead of being thrown over like the scum you were.”

As if in answer, a shrieking gale picked up, almost knocking him off balance. He shivered. No one knew what happened to elves who ended their own lives. He could only hope that what came after was mere oblivion. 

He felt the magnetic pull of the abyss as it called to him, and took another step forward. 

He wanted to think of something happy before he died. He tried to remember his mother, tried to conjure back his last good memories of her. But nothing came to him. She had grown so miserable and bitter in those last years in Nan Elmoth. The years she spent beside Eöl had choked off the light in her eyes. 

With youthful idealism, he had hoped Gondolin would heal her, would bring back her strong-headedness and carefree laugh. It could have. She might have become his mother again, given time. She hadn’t been given more time. 

No, he could not for the life of him remember his mother the way she had been before. What came to him instead was the day he and Thénarion had forged that helm. The day he and Idril went looking for Dolias in the tunnels. The day he and Glorfindel had plunged into the freezing water of the waterfall, the day Glorfindel had declared his love for him. The day he held Eärendil for the first time. 

How boundless life had seemed in those moments, how full of promise. It was possible to believe, then, that love and joy could be infinite, enormous, and overwhelm all the darkness in the world. When you were in harmony with life, it felt like you could stretch your hands skyward and feel hope dripping onto your hands like summer rain. 

He wept now, because life was so beautiful, and loving was so good, even when it hurt this much. Even here, even at the most hopeless moment of his life, he was sad to leave living behind. But it was for the best. For what he had done, the only logical reward was death. 

Then he heard a voice behind him.

“It’s too pretty a night to be crying,” said a voice, “And a long way down.”

Maeglin froze, and pricked up his ears like a startled deer.

“Who’s there?”

He turned his head to see Idril hopping barefoot over the rocks toward him, seemingly oblivious to the precipitous drop lying just beyond. The darker it was, the more pronounced seemed her soft, Vanyarin glow. 

“Don’t come any closer,” said Maeglin, stumbling back. But his back was toward the ledge, and there was nowhere left for him to go. Idril respected his wishes, however, and stood still on the ledge several yards away, smiling.

“Come to me then,” she said. 

Were her eyes laughing? Was she mocking him?

“How dare you?” he spat, “How dare you come to me now? After the darkness you put in my life? It was you, always you, poisoning every breath I took, while you went on, blameless and loved. If you’ve any virtue at all, you’ll acknowledge that, and carry it with you, for a while at least.”

He glared at her, daring her to soften her eyes in pity. But she did not. 

“I’m not that powerful, Maeglin,” she replied, “And my life hasn’t been as easy as you say. I’m not that pristine Valaress you always seemed to think I was.”

“Of course you were,” he said, “You were perfect. You were everything, and I was nothing.”

“That’s just not true,” said Idril, her eyes twinkling, “Although I used to think as you did. In dualities. Good and wicked. Darkness and light. But have you ever thought that perhaps there was never _ you and I _, at all? That you may live your life, and I, mine, and all of our triumphs and trials occur merely in parallel, fundamentally unconnected to one another?”

“What does it matter? I loved you,” insisted Maeglin, “It is a sin for which I suffered too much.”

He cast a desperate look over his shoulder. He could still do it. He still had a chance to get away.

“I’m sorry for the grief I caused you,” said Idril, and she truly meant it, “I’m sorry for the self-absorbed girl I was. I changed, you know, after I had Eärendil. I like to think I grew up, and became a better person than I was. But it doesn’t excuse what I did before.”

“It’s too late,” said Maeglin, “You don’t understand. It’s really, finally too late. Just let me go, Idril. Let me find a place where it doesn’t hurt this much.”

There was a moment of hesitation in Idril’s golden eyes. She seemed to be wondering whether what she would say next was too cruel, even if it needed to be said.

“It would destroy Glorfindel,” said Idril softly, “What you’re about to do. He would never be the same. Hasn’t he suffered enough because of you?”

Maeglin’s grimaced as though burned.

“_ Glorfindel doesn’t know! _” he screamed, “What it’s like, here in my head; how dark it gets. It’s a nasty trick you’re trying to pull, bringing up his name. He’ll be fine! He’ll be better off without me.”

Yet he knew in his heart Idril was right. Even when his own suffering was ended, Glorfindel would carry his for the rest of his eternal life. Until the end of all things. He couldn’t bear to think how long it might be before Glorfindel would be able to speak his name without weeping.

With that knowledge he knew he would not, and could not, throw himself over Caragdûr that day. He took one last glance over the void below, and cursed.

_ Not today, Father. Not yet, after all. _

Idril was holding both hands out to him. Hesitantly, he took them. They were soft, and strong, and warm. 

“What am I to do now?” he asked her, “How am I to go on?”

Idril smiled and held his hands steadily.

“You never met Fingolfin, our grandfather,” she said, “I wish you had. He was a great king, and a great man. He always had time to spend with me, even though I wasn’t a boy. I asked him once if he ever felt afraid, because he seemed so fearless and strong. 

He took me in his arms and said: ‘Idril, listen to me. There will come a day when you believe you are not good enough, not smart enough, not strong enough for what lies before you. You will be afraid, I guarantee it. But regardless, the sun will rise, and so must you, to protect your family. It’s a quiet kind of courage, the kind it takes simply to go on, but it might be the most important kind of all.’ 

So be brave, Maeglin. Be brave as our grandfather, and my father, and your mother were brave. Steel your heart. Face the dawn.”

They both glanced over at the thin white line that had appeared, marking the horizon. The sun was rising. 

Silently, Maeglin let Idril lead him away from the abyss.

They began the slow and precarious climb back to solid ground. He shivered, suddenly realizing how cold he was. Idril was wearing a cloak, but he hadn’t expected to make the return trip from Caragdûr, and wasn’t dressed for the chill of those early hours. Seeing this, Idril unfastened her mantle beneath her cloak, and draped the silk around his shoulders, still warm with the heat of her body. 

Maeglin smiled at memory this gesture evoked. The two of them walked back toward the palace, so changed now from the children they had once been.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked.

“Do you remember,” he said, “That day we went into the tunnels, looking for your cat?”

“Of course I do!” said Idril, laughing, “And those awful rats! I made you fight them off in the freezing water, just to save stupid little Dolias’s hide, and you did.”

“I was happy to do it for you,” said Maeglin, “I’d do it again. I really did love you.”

Idril nodded sadly. 

“I know. To be honest, there were times when I thought, if we weren’t cousins, it would have been you. No one could make me laugh like you could. No one else took me on adventures like that. But it doesn’t do us good to dwell on what could have been, does it?”

“No,” agreed Maeglin, with a forlorn twitch of the corner of his mouth, “And while we’re here, I wanted to say, Idril, that the day I spent with you under Gondolin was the sweetest and most innocent of my entire life, and that you are simply the loveliest person I have ever known. I’m sorry for every thoughtless or cruel thing I’ve ever done or said to you out of my own brokenness.”

They had stopped before Maeglin’s door. Both had slowed their pace as they approached, drawing out the time they might spend together in mutual liking, but now it was time for them to part ways. 

Idril, for once, had nothing to say. She went over and put her arms around her dark cousin. One last time, Maeglin closed his eyes and felt her silver hair against his cheek. One last time, he took in the scent of lilies. 

“Good night, Idril.”

“Good night, Maeglin. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He watched her bare ankles crisscrossing as she walked away, leaving him outside his bedroom door.

He leaned against the door for a long while after she had left, trying to make sense of the events of the day. _ Face the dawn _. It was so simple and yet so terrifying a prospect. But because Glorfindel believed, and because Idril had stopped him from dying, he could. He would go to Turgon tomorrow, and confess everything. Even if it was too late to change anything, even if he was beyond redemption now, he would not die a coward as his father had done. That much, at least, was still his choice to make.

He opened his bedroom door and went inside.

Gilwen was curled up asleep at the foot of his bed. When she heard him, she sat up and rubbed her eyes squirrelishly. Maeglin raised his eyebrows.

“Idril told you?”

Gilwen nodded. 

“She told me that you behaved strangely at the council today, that she was worried, and that she was going after you in case you did something rash.” 

“Well, she was right,” said Maeglin, “And she found me in time. I’ll be all right.”

Gilwen crossed her arms.

“I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

“Good,” said Maeglin, slipping off his shoes, “I don’t want to be.”

He sat down next to her. Then he tilted his head slightly, as though comprehending something for the first time.

“You never leave, do you? Even though you should have, long ago.”

“How could I?” said Gilwen, “I love you. I’ve always loved you, you fool. In spite of how little it seems to matter.”

Maeglin could not name the feeling that overcame him at this moment. He had never quite realized until today how much remained in his life to feel grateful for. He took her in his arms.

“Gilly, it matters,” he said, “Of course it matters.”

ø

She put him to bed, and then lay down next to him like she used to when he was a boy: fully clothed, along the edge, facing away. She could hear the birds outside though the sky was still mostly dark. It was a strange, she thought, this passage from one day into another. Each morning awakening seemed like a fresh start, until you realized there was no space between days, no curtain, no halt to the passage of time. The sun simply went down, and up, and down again.

She felt his breath along the nape of her neck, then his lips brushing the base of her ear. When she looked over her shoulder at him, his eyes were shining in the dark.

“Are you sure?” she asked, searching his face. He nodded. 

So she came closer, and she opened herself up to him, and at long last, he came in. Their clothes were on, the lights were off, and she took in the shape of his body, its weight, its scent. The skin of his belly was hot against her hand. He stifled a gasp as she found the part of him that most needed to be touched, and she cherished his quietness as she led him toward her warmth. It was something in the way he whimpered the moment they came together that made her realize he had never done this before.

“Really?” she said, “A handsome devil like you?”

He blushed. Laughing, she put her hands on him and pulled their hips together, and gloried in the sweet cry he couldn’t hold back. She let him take control then, and he clung to her, burying his pain inside her, his grief and anger and confusion and guilt.

She held him. Wordless sounds emanated from within his chest, alternating with her own soft cries, building in pitch and desperation until they finally gave way to sharp, frenzied sighs, and she felt the heaviness of his body again as it rocked and shuddered over hers. He lay panting in her arms.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered when he could speak again, “Did… did you like that?”

“I liked it very much,” she said, laying him down on his side, “The next time, I’ll show you what else I like.”

But he may not have heard, already drifting off to sleep. 

She absently ran her hand over the scars on his back. 

Yes, she knew. Of course she did, of course the vial she had handed to him for inspection that day held only saltwater. And of course she had protected him, even while urging Idril to go ahead with the plans for the secret way out of Gondolin, along the weak stretch of wall in the tunnels.

And in the past hour, she had given herself up completely at the mere touch of his lips. She lay awake and watched him sleep, feeling vaguely used. What was it about the son of Aredhel that made her willingly become a vessel for his anguish, to let him leave his pain inside her as he rode her body, imagining Idril? 

It was beyond reason how helpless he made her. She knew she deserved better, but did not want it. Could this really be what it meant to love? To lay your life at someone’s feet, knowing they would never do the same?

But just when she thought he was sound asleep, his eyes opened, as though he had read her mind.

“Gilly, believe me,” he said, “Tonight, there is nothing in the world I wanted, except to be with you.”

Nienna only knew how much time they had left before the war came. All of their doubts mattered little in the end. Gilwen closed her eyes, held Maeglin’s hands, and-- oh, what was the harm in it, just for the night? She let herself believe him.


	19. Sons and Daughters

Awake for quite some time now, Maeglin lay in bed on his side, leaning his head against his hand, his gaze directed tranquilly toward the woman sleeping next to him. How pretty she looked, lying there. How perfect, with the light on her collarbone, the rise and fall of her breast, and her black hair spread across the pillow like an inkstain. 

In the distance, bells tolled ten o’clock, and the streets already bustled below his window. The world had no time for lovely moments of idleness like this one, Maeglin thought. Or else he could simply lie here and watch her for hours.

Last night, in the breaking dawn, they had been so close to one another: beneath their clothes, with need that had connected them, pressed up against each other until the distinction between them melted away, the world dissolved around their bodies, and everything ceased to exist except for her steady essence and his presence inside it.

Love? That wasn’t the word. Nor was “friendship”, not the way he felt for Gilly. These words meant pain, wanting, blood, and sacrifice. Was there another word, a lighter word, for the way his heart now sang? If there was, then it escaped him now, but surely it would evoke green fields, and clouds, and birds, and the sound of the rain...

He wanted more time with her, wanted it so badly it physically ached. He wanted to roam the woods with her by moonlight. Lie in the snow with her in winter. Dance with her on the first of Spring. Lean back against a stone column, her fingers in his hair, and let her kiss him. He wanted to be hers again.

He wanted to tell her, somehow, that he knew the door was always open for him even if he never went inside; that just knowing she was there made all the difference. And now that he had crossed that threshold, there were so many promises he wanted to make her. 

Idly, he imagined her in a white gown, a crown of yellow flowers. He toyed with the image of what their daughter might look like at nine years old. Smart as a fox, no doubt, and full of fire, and supposing she had Aredhel’s eyes, as Eärendil had Turgon’s?

He reminded himself, sharply, that none of these things lay in his future. He was the villain in this story, after all, and the wicked did not end up happy. They didn’t end up with pretty girls, or flowers, or little daughters to dote on. But there was no harm in dreaming, was there?

Maeglin would rather have stayed until she awoke, but his business could wait no longer. He decided to leave her a note. He rose from the bed, gingerly, so as not to disturb her, and padded over to the drafting table in the corner. He neatly tore a slip from his book, tested the tip of his pen, and began to write. Carefully, lovingly, he put words onto paper, imagining each letter and stroke as another moment spent with her. 

_ “Gilly-- Sorry I had to leave, but you looked so lovely as you were sleeping, and I thought it was for the best. I--” _

His pen paused just a moment before inspiration came to him, and he finished the rest of the note. He smiled at the thought of how she would respond to the stupid thing he had written. Creasing the paper down the middle, he returned briefly to tuck it in her fingers, resting near her cheek on the pillow.

Ø

The door to Turgon’s study was made of polished oak, arched at the top to fit the shape of the entryway. Maeglin lingered outside.

His uncle sat mere feet away, on the other side, not knowing he was there. He didn’t have to do the thing he had come here to do. There was still a chance.

_ You could run away _ .

He could leave Gondolin to its fate. There was no stopping the forces of Morgoth, not judging by what he had seen in Angband. He took a shaking breath and put his hand against the wood, horrified with himself. 

The nasty voice in his head slithered out again.

_ Save yourself. You’re already beyond redemption, aren’t you? No one’s going to forgive you. It’s too late for a change of heart. Get out, get out while you can _ …

He could take Mothwing and ride South. They would never find him. 

He took a step back from the door. That voice was winning. The darkness inside him was winning, would always win. His future had been written long ago, written in the stars over Caragdûr, Eöl’s final curse. There was no escaping fate. Why fight it? What difference would it make if he himself were allowed to make it out alive? 

And then a different voice, a braver voice, rose up within him to answer. 

_ The difference is the kind of man this makes you. If you believe, truly believe, we are bound to our fates, and to what the world has made us, then there’s no point to anything at all. But if you believe we can choose, then choose the better path.  _

_ It’s never too late _ .

It made a difference. It made all the difference in the world. His guilt, his remorse-- these would help no one; there was no changing the past. All that mattered now was what he came to do. Before another second could pass, before his courage failed him and he changed his mind, he knocked three times on the door.

“Enter,” came Turgon’s voice from within. Maeglin twisted the iron handle and went inside.

Turgon sat at his carved desk amidst neat stacks of documents and decrees. He had been annotating a draft of some kind, but stopped when he saw Maeglin come in, looking a little surprised by the visit.

“Good morning, Maeglin,” he said, “To what do I owe the honor?”

Maeglin told him everything.

Ø

“You’ve gone mad,” said Turgon, awestruck, pushing his chair back from his desk, away from his nephew.

“I’m not mad, uncle,” said Maeglin quietly, “I wish I were. But I’m telling the truth.”

“It can’t be,” said Turgon, “What you’re saying is pure nonsense. How can it be possible? Five hundred years. Gondolin has been kept secret for _five hundred years_. What are you doing?”

Maeglin was unfastening the ties on his shirt. When they were all undone, he turned around where he stood, so his back faced Turgon, and let it fall to his waist.

Turgon flinched and cried out involuntarily, leaping from his chair. Yet he was unable to look away. He stared mutely at what had become of Maeglin’s body. The proof of what he had denied was written out plainly before him in distorted flesh.

Maeglin slipped his shirt back on and fastened it again, almost casually, as Turgon sat frozen in his seat. 

There was a tense silence.

Then, suddenly, Turgon picked up a heavy book from his desk and hurled it at the closed window, which shattered, crumpling in its frame. Maeglin looked at him in alarm. His uncle, always so amiable and mild-mannered, was breathing heavily, shaking in fury where he stood. 

“Uncle--”

Turgon started to pace. 

“I’ll fucking kill him. I’ll kill all of them.”

He swept up his inkwell and sent it smashing down onto the table, spraying black ink, drenching all of the the formal documents and ancient tomes where they stood in their neat stacks.

“I swear to Ilúvatar, I swear on my life, I swear on Gondolin, I’m going to cut him down with my own hands and make him pay for what he did.”

Maeglin silently watched the king, whom he had always thought wiser than he, who always knew what to do, lose his head. He wondered briefly if he should intervene before Turgon injured himself, or destroyed any more of his own priceless possessions. Then he remembered how laughable it now was to save things of value now, given what was to come.

“I watched,” cried Turgon, “I hid and I watched-- the  _ Dagor Bragollach _ . The  _ Nirnaeth Arnoediad _ . My father.  _ Ai Ilúvatar _ , Maeglin, you saw what he did to my father. And Fingon, my brother Fingon, the best man this world has ever known.”

His face twisted in grief.

“And now you,” he said, “You, my nephew, my sister’s son, whom I swore to protect as my own. I did nothing, and he came for you--”

His pacing had brought him near the wall now, and impulsively, he drew back his right fist. Quickly, Maeglin reached out and closed his left hand around Turgon’s wrist.

“Don’t,” advised Maeglin, “Men break their fingers that way.”

He sustained his grip until he felt the tension in his uncle’s arm dissipate, and slowly let him go. Turgon was panting. Gradually, he calmed, and the humanity returned to his eyes. He turned to Maeglin.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, “None of it is your fault. It’s my own, I-- I failed you, I know you only left Gondolin because you felt like a stranger here, and none of this would have happened if I had only--”

“ _ Uncle _ ,” interrupted Maeglin, “ _ I _ betrayed Gondolin to Morgoth. I, and not you.”

“He hurt you,” said Turgon, “He hurt you so terribly. He tempted you. He threatened to murder countless thousands. _ Ilúvatar _ , the suffering you must have endured.”

Maeglin looked away. There had been pain, yes. But worse than the physical wounds, worse than waking up crippled, had been the stripping of his dignity, the degradation, the isolation, the waking nightmare he had lived after his return from Angband.

“It was bad,” he acknowledged, “And perhaps I would be less to blame if I made my confession sooner. But I didn’t, Uncle. Morgoth should never have been able to turn my heart against you, no matter how brutal his means. Yet I believed him. He was right about the darkness in me. I believed him when he promised me power, I was prepared to fight on his side in the sack, I fed secrets to his spies and hid the truth from you all this time. That was no one’s fault but my own.”

Turgon’s eyes searched his face desperately, and Maeglin could see that he still didn’t want to believe him, or accept that his nephew had done such an awful deed.

“Why have you come to me now, then?” asked Turgon quietly, “Now that you’ve served him for so long?”

Maeglin recalled the events of the previous day-- how three people had come to him when he thought he was alone, and all saved him in their own way. But there was too much to put into words, and they didn’t have much time. So he said something equally true:

“You’re my family,” he said, “You, and Idril, and Tuor, and Eärendil. What I have seen of your love gives me the faith that we can win this in the end. And on that… on that, I’m willing to wager everything.”

Turgon blinked and wiped his face. He gave Maeglin a long look, as though seeing fully for the first time. There was another silence, an uncertain one. 

Finally, Turgon spoke, and what he said was not at all what Maeglin expected to hear: “Maeglin… if I ever doubted for an instant you were Aredhel’s son, then I was a fool. I cannot imagine the courage it took for you to survive, let alone come here today.”

Maeglin half-smiled at these words, not quite able to see the same courage in himself that Turgon did. 

“And,” continued Turgon, “That you would risk death and torture to save a city that utterly betrayed you.”

That wasn’t fully true. Maeglin would die before he let Morgoth take him again. All the same, Turgon’s words meant something. Maeglin might have to wander the Halls of Mandos repenting until the end of days, but he was glad to know he had Turgon’s forgiveness, even if he would never have Manwë’s. Even if he would go down in history reviled in the hearts of elves.

“How much time do we have left?” asked Turgon, abruptly turning the conversation toward practical matters. Maeglin knew it was his duty as king to do so.

“Three months,” he replied, “Four at the most. I will lead on Morgoth’s spies to delay the attack as long as I can.”

“Four months,” repeated Turgon, “It’s not much time, but enough to get everyone out of the city.”

At this, Maeglin pursed his lips grimly. He had thought about this already, and anticipated the problem that Turgon had overlooked.

“There’s nowhere for them to go, Uncle. The Crebain are in the skies, watching our every move, and the instant the exodus begins, Morgoth will know you were forewarned. You know what will happen if a hundred thousand people, over half of them women and children, begin to flee out of these walls into the open with Morgoth’s army in pursuit. They’ll be slaughtered, every one of them.”

Turgon cursed under his breath. Maeglin was right. 

“We’ll need to get the women in children out in secret,” said Turgon, “Before Morgoth knows he was betrayed.”

“Precisely,” said Maeglin, “We’ll evacuate villages gradually, a hundred families a day, disguised as freight. Forgive me, but we’ll need to allow Morgoth’s army to lay siege. Gondolin should stand, four days or more, and meanwhile exhaust at least some of the orcs’ strength and supply. If the wall is breached, if they get in-- well,  _ when _ they get in-- only then will they learn that the civilians are gone.”

Turgon nodded slowly.

“A diversion,” he said, “We will force Morgoth to keep up a siege, and by the time he learns the truth, the civilians will be too far away, and his army too scattered, to pursue. Yes, this is the only way. We’re going to need arms.”

Maeglin nodded.

“I can’t really make weapons worth a damn anymore, but Celebrimbor should be able to see to it. I will try my best to help him make the arrangements..”

Turgon had wondered why Maeglin had stepped down as head smith. Now, he thought with a heavy inward sigh, now he knew.

“How on earth are we going to raise an army in secret? To explain the large numbers of carts carrying unknown freight to and from the tunnels? The sudden increase in the production of arms?”

Maeglin’s eyes gleamed in anticipation of the challenge.

“What about under the guise of building a new palace, Uncle? Why should the High King of the Noldor have but one palace at the edge of Gondolin, when he could build a second, more lavish, on the other side? Of course, such a project would require rock from the quarry, explaining the increased traffic. And it would justify the training of many new recruits, and more arms, to stand guard at each of the newly erected towers.”

“A fine idea,” agreed Turgon, “We’d put up the scaffolds, and drape them in canvas. A facsimile of a construction site.”

They talked at length now, bluntly, factually: what other secret arrangements would need to be made. Idril would be entrusted to lead the evacuation, for the Crebain would be watching women much less carefully. The Twelve Lords would undertake the raising of an army to staff the new “palace”. Maeglin would continue to feed the illusion of complicity to the Crebain, assuring them Turgon was far too busy building himself another home to worry about the affairs of Angband. When the orcs came, he would appear to fight on the side of Morgoth to maintain this illusion. And finally--

“One more thing, Uncle,” said Maeglin, “It’s best if people don’t know the truth about me, or about what’s going to happen. Anything even slightly out of the ordinary will arouse the suspicion of the Crebain. In fact, I think it’s best to keep it between the two of us, for now--” 

He hesitated.

“Which means...”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He saw, from the look in Turgon’s eyes, that he did not need to: they both knew there was a chance he and Turgon might both perish before people learned the truth about what had happened. If it came to that-- if it would buy them more time-- then Maeglin was prepared to die a traitor’s death if he needed to.

Ø

Celebrimbor wasn’t in the smithy. His workbench, cluttered but clean, was unoccupied. The jewel called the Elessar, nearly finished now, lay in the middle of everything, casting dazzling lights into the deepest corners of the space: a star captured within elven creation. Maeglin admired it for a moment, resisting the urge to touch the fantastic stone. Celebrimbor was an unparalleled talent, indeed.

He started to walk away, but turned back around, and finally walked over to his own bench one last time. He had not used it since he embarked on his last, fateful trip to the mines. A thin layer of dust covered everything. Although there was barely enough space in the smithy to serve all of the smiths, let alone the apprentices, no one had touched Maeglin’s bench in all this time. He knew it was out of unspoken respect for him: a gesture that meant the other smiths would wait, as long as necessary, for his return. It touched him. But now it was time to move on.

His tools were lined up neatly on their shelf, as they had always been. Thénarion had forged these for him, long ago, a gift upon his precocious ascendance from apprentice to full smith. He tenderly ran his fingers along each bone handle, remembering how they had felt in his hands before everything happened. Back when he had been stronger, when he had been whole. These tools had served him so loyally over the years. A pang of sadness hit him. They had taught him so much. 

There was a loud clatter from the other side of the smithy, and Maeglin jumped. It was lunchtime, and he had thought himself alone. Bemused, Maeglin made his way to the source of the sound. 

A forge was lit. Someone was standing there, working. Someone small. As Maeglin approached, the apprentice straightened quickly, revealing a face covered in soot, a skein of unkempt brown hair, and tired, red-tinged eyes.

“Have you been here all night, boy?” he asked, spying the pile of chrome objects on the floor nearby, which on closer inspection were drinking goblets of various shapes and sizes. The apprentice had just thrown another completed goblet onto the pile, making the loud noise. Hearing Maeglin’s question, the youngster may have blushed. It was hard to tell under the soot.

“Yes, my lord,” replied the apprentice, “And I… I’m a girl.”

She blushed even more deeply, very embarrassed to have to clarify her gender. Maeglin was surprised.

“My sincerest apologies,” he said, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Hiraeth, my lord,” she said with a little bow, “As in the children’s tale.”

He cocked his head curiously.  _ Hiraeth _ . It was an unusual name.

“Well met, Hiraeth,” he said, “I’m called Maeglin.”

“I know who  _ you _ are, my lord,” said the girl, and instantly blushed yet again, realizing how impertinent this sounded.

“And just what was important enough to keep you from your sleep, your meals and your lessons, Hiraeth?”

Hiraeth threw down the tools she had been holding in apparent frustration.

“My master told me to make a goblet to present to him this afternoon,” she said, her eyes wide with apprehension, “But I just can’t. These are  _ awful. _ ”

She kicked the pile, loudly scattering the goblets across the floor. Maeglin reached down and picked one up. He frowned.

“These are very good,” he said, “Your master will certainly find any one of them adequate.”

At the word “adequate”, Hiraeth twitched as though insulted, and Maeglin understood at once. His mind returned to the nights he used to spend here alone, the times he had forgone daylight for days at a time to finish his latest creation, only to melt it down again and start anew. Not good enough. Never good enough.

“Hiraeth,” he said gently, “You’re not going to listen to me and I know it, but I’ll say it anyway: you have to be a bit kinder to yourself. Some things just take time. Why don’t you stop making goblets a little while? I think you’ve made enough to stock Turgon’s entire banquet hall on the eve of  _ Nost-na-Lothion _ . I’ll make you a deal: if you settle on ‘very good’ for now and eat some lunch, I’ll show you how to make a helm.”

Hiraeth’s eyes widened. She was thrilled even to be speaking to the great Lord Maeglin in the first place. Her Papa and his friends made snide comments about his strangeness when they drank, but she never believed it.  _ Lord Maeglin is better than all of you put together _ , she had thought indignantly as she refilled their glasses,  _ and someday I’ll be a smith, like him. Just you watch me _ . 

She pounced on the meat-filled roll he held out to her, which he had been meaning to consume himself, and began to wolf it down. 

Maeglin waited patiently for her to finish, intrigued. She was talented. That was illustrated plainly in each of the discarded chrome goblets. As talented as he had been, if not more. Insatiable, judging by the gleam in her eyes. What great things could she do if someone believed in her? What could she do, given enough time?

Hiraeth finished the roll and wiped her hands on her blackened student’s smock and peered up at him expectantly. Maeglin smiled.

“Wait here,” he said. He returned a minute later and held out two of his own tools: his lightest hammer and tongs. She hesitated. He put their bone handles into her hands. 

“Now,” he said, “Stand up straight, Hiraeth. Lean too far in and you’ll burn your nose in the fire.”

She complied at once. Side by side, as promised, they worked. Over the next hours, little by little, a helm began to take shape. Occasionally Maeglin adjusted the angle of her elbows, or held her hands to guide them. Her strength, and his wisdom, working in harmony. 

Once, Hiraeth hammered a piece too hard, and ruined it.

“Shit,” she hissed automatically, and blushed, realizing Maeglin had heard.

“It’s all right,” he said, “Try again.”

But Hiraeth shook her head.

“I’m worthless at this,” she said, with a venom in her voice reserved only for herself, “Damn it, I wish I weren’t a girl.”

“It has nothing to do with it,” said Maeglin, “Lady Gilwen is a girl, and she’s the greatest healer the Eldar have ever seen. Lady Idril is a girl, and she saved Gondolin from collapse after the wars. There’s nothing at all you can’t do, if you fight for it.”

“That’s not what the chancellor says,” said Hiraeth darkly, and mimicked his manner of sanctimonious preaching: “ _ The ideal woman is demure, charming, and humble. Like a garden rose she brings joy with her quiet loveliness. She never seeks to contradict her man with her wit, and by serving him, she brings him strength _ .”

Her imitation was so good that Maeglin had to bite back a snort of laughter. 

“The chancellor means well,” he said diplomatically, “And you must learn to forgive people for their good intentions. Anyway, better to be daisy growing out of the rock than a ‘garden rose’. They’ll crush and trample you, but you’ll spring back up time and time again, because that’s all you’ve ever known. There, look-- we’ve finished.”

When it was cool enough to touch, Hiraeth picked up the helm they had made, gazing for a long time into its burnished surface. Her curved reflection gazed wonderingly back at her. She looked up at Maeglin, unable to say anything except for a timid little: “Thank you, Lord Maeglin.”

“No,” said Maeglin, “Thank  _ you _ , Hiraeth. For helping me remember what I love about this place. I’ve had a wonderful time.”

At last, Hiraeth smiled. She started to hand his tools back to him.

“Keep them,” said Maeglin, “A long time ago, my master gave them to me. I think it’s time I passed them along as well. Take good care of them, and they will serve you well. But remember, being a great smith isn’t everything.”

She gazed at him with rapt attention now, and he knew she would listen to every word he had to say, taking it absolutely to heart. What could he say to her that might make a difference? He decided to tell her the things he had needed to hear at her age.

“Treat kindly the ones closest to you, and believe them when they tell you they love you. Know that there are people out there whose very goodness is what keeps the world around them from falling into ruin. When you find them, cherish them, and you may even become one of them. Most importantly, don’t ever let anyone tell you that you deserve to suffer. Do you know what it means for a property to be ‘intrinsic’, Hiraeth?”

“It means,” she stammered, “It means, in the case of metals and other materials, that it belongs, that it is essential, that it cannot be taken away.”

“That’s exactly right. You have worth,  _ intrinsic  _ worth. Worth you do not have to earn. Oh, and try not to grow up all at once, if you can help it. Wisdom will come with time, I promise you, but it’s hard won, and there’s no going back.”

Hiraeth crossed her hands over her heart and inclined her head.

“I will do as you have said, Lord Maeglin,” she whispered, “I swear it on everything I own. And you should know that you-- you’re better than the bastards who speak ill of you. Better than the rest of them combined.”

Something in the naïve sincerity in the statement reminded him painfully of Jack. Where was he now? Was he watching, somehow? Would he be proud of the things Maeglin had done today? 

But to Hiraeth he only smiled, and touched her shoulder before leaving.

Ø

Gilwen and Idril stood at the edge of the landing atop King’s Tower, looking out over the familiar sight of the rooftops and spires of Gondolin below. They rested their elbows over the wall, each lost in her own thoughts.

Gilwen toyed with the silver locket she always wore around her neck. There were three objects inside: a strand of her mother’s hair, a scrap of her father’s handkerchief, and, folded carefully to a thumbnail’s size, the note Maeglin had written to her this morning:

_ Gilly-- Sorry I had to leave, but you looked so lovely as you were sleeping, and I thought it was for the best. I miss you, and can’t wait to see you again. Don’t let the garsnuffs bite. Love, Maeglin _ .

She glanced over at Idril, who was staring straight ahead, her beautiful face set in cool determination. Idril carried a small box with her, wrapped in green cloth. Her mantle billowed around her in the high wind. They were in good hands, Gilwen thought. It was comforting to know that Idril would be with them, in the days that were to come.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs below. Shortly after, they were joined by Kemelin.

“Narfin isn’t far behind,” she said. Her tone was as friendly as ever, but the perpetual, casually joyful smile that she had worn when they played Knights and Knaves was gone. This was a different type of gathering. They were all afraid, silently afraid, of what might happen if they failed.

As Kemelin promised, Narfin appeared shortly afterward.

“I had forgotten my cloak,” she said breathlessly, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Idril, “I’m glad you’re here. I have something for you three.”

She unwrapped the box she was holding and opened it. Inside were four identical, crescent-shaped knives, each just small enough to be worn around the neck. The handles were of elegantly whittled antler, the scabbards smooth leather. They each took one. The knives were light, but solid, made for a purpose. Gilwen shivered inwardly, hoping they would never have to fulfill that purpose.

“I had Celebrimbor make these some time ago,” explained Idril, “Light enough for a woman’s hand, strong enough to defend her. Carry them with you. We must become a bit dangerous, in dangerous times.”

Idril smiled as the others silently slipped the thin  _ mithril _ chains over their heads in almost symbolic unison, and tucked the scabbards into the fronts of their gowns. It felt significant somehow, the four of them standing together with their sleeves fluttering in tandem like banners in the westerly wind. She wondered, with sudden heaviness in her heart, who among them would make it out alive. How many times had the four of them all been together, in happy times and sad, on rainy nights playing cards, or on sunny days riding to the Great Market? 

She remembered these three dressed in silver at her wedding, arms full of lilies, grinning and waving as she walked down toward them in her white dress. Narfin, gentle and vivacious and pure of heart, quick to tears and laughter. Kemelin, steadfast and levelheaded, sardonically witty. And Gilwen, clever and obstinate, always at her side. She couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to any of them, and hoped to Nienna she would not have to. But she mustn’t dwell on that now. For her own sake, for all their sakes, she would need to take heart.

“Before we start,” said Narfin, “I have something to tell you three.” 

_ “What is it?” _ they all asked at the same time, staring intently, and Narfin blushed.

“I-- well, Ecthelion and I-- are expecting. I wasn’t sure at first, but with all that’s happened, I didn’t know when else to tell you. No one else knows yet and, well, with the two of us not married--”

“That’s wonderful news!” exclaimed Idril.

Narfin looked a bit astonished at her exuberance, but then giggled happily and came up to return her proffered embrace. 

“Thank you,” she said, “I only told Ecthelion yesterday, and, I mean, it isn’t something we planned, obviously, but we couldn’t be more delighted.”

“Congratulations,” said Gilwen, smiling ear to ear, “That’s incredible.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Kemelin affectionately, “Our little Narfin is going to be a mother. I’m going to be the child’s favorite aunt, you just watch me.”

They were all smiling now. It was nice to have a bit of good news, like a small star glinting in the darkening sky. For a few moments more, they stood close to each other, musing over the details of a future with Narfin’s child in it, without mention of what the landscape of that world would be. Finally, it was time to return to their task.

“The evacuation,” said Idril, “The false scaffold will be built over the entrance to the secret tunnel. The order in which families are evacuated will be determined by a fair lottery. They be told in secret where to convene, and know to go silently, with their children, and just a few belongings. They will be instructed to head South, toward the Bay of Balar, by the forested way...”

Ø

Glorfindel had an hourlong break between morning and afternoon drills. Turgon had ordered that they intensify the training of all recruits, purportedly to staff the new palace. It was absurd, and not at all like Turgon. The hours they kept now were exhausting, close to the levels expected to prepare for war. The king had promised that all would be made clear-- hopefully soon, Glorfindel thought, as he walked down the steps to the smithy. 

He had, of course, come in search of Maeglin. He hated how they left things: in tears and anger, their friendship broken. Glorfindel had spoken so thoughtlessly in his anger, had lost his temper and left when he was still needed. But then again, Maeglin had hurt him quite badly. He could not have known about the terrible secret Maeglin had been keeping, about what had happened in Angband. All he knew was that now it was time to talk things through, and mend them. 

“Pardon me,” he said to one of the apprentices. “But is Lord Maeglin here today? There’s something I must speak to him about.”

“Ah, no, Lord Glorfindel!” said Hiraeth, “He was here for a long while last week, but he hasn’t been around often since he resigned as head smith. I’m afraid I can’t say where he would be, my lord.”

“Damn it,” said Glorfindel, “Well, if he comes by--”

“Yes, my lord, I’ll let him know,” said Hiraeth, smiling. As usual, Glorfindel’s general lightness and optimism were very contagious.

Glorfindel loped back up the steps again, whistling, his golden hair flashing as it caught the sun. No matter. He was bound to run into Maeglin soon. If not this week, then the next. They would make things right. He would ask Maeglin if he wanted to go riding together later, something they hadn’t done for quite a while now. He missed him. 


	20. The Fall (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ill-fated battle for Gondolin begins.

Chaos. Fire. This was a world Glorfindel once knew, a world he had forgotten. Beneath him, Asfaloth foundered, his snowy flanks bloody.

The orcs had gotten in on the fifth day. The House of the Golden Flower tenuously held the ground that was once the Great Market. Ahead loomed the splintered North Gate, beyond which lay the next wave of orcs.

“Tighten ranks!” Glorfindel shouted over the din, “Don’t let them in!”

His House pulled in slowly toward him, weighted down by exhaustion and fear. The young elf to his left seemed about to fall off his horse. Glorfindel reached out with one arm to steady him.

“Have hope yet,” he said, and the youth faintly nodded.

The rumble of marching feet heralded the approaching enemy. Hulking silhouettes appeared in the dust and smoke. In a moment, their yellow eyes would come into view.

“Now!”

Asfaloth surged forward, breaking cleanly through the front line. Glorfindel plunged his sword straight through crudely made chainmail, felt flesh tear and rib splinter in the path of his blade. He yanked back on the hilt, drawing forth a shower of black blood. Immediately he swung it again, this time knocking a careening orc off of his mount. 

Glorfindel’s handsome features contorted in hate. How he hated them, their soulless eyes, their leathery faces. What a tragic damned waste it was for his kinsmen to be slaughtered by these low, horrible creatures.

They fought. Ash and smoke clouded their eyes. Metal clashed against metal. The sour scent of blood rose up. Moans, shrieks, cries of pain, orc and elf alike.

Then quiet. 

The elves had held their ground. This time, at least. One by one, they emerged from the settling dust and regrouped. A sable-haired elf with a tall, straight nose wiped the blood from his face and rode up to Glorfindel. This was Ranaroch, his first lieutenant.

“Galenion is dead,” said Ranaroch bluntly.

Glorfindel cursed in grief. Galenion had been the youngest of the Golden Flower. Gentle, clever, and kind; ever protective of his younger sisters. How many more would there be? How many would be left?

Marching orc-feet echoed again from beyond the gate. Ranaroch’s face blanched in horror.

“Forty-- sixty-- they’re all coming at once,” he cried.

Glorfindel could hear them too. They could not go on like this: they could not possibly withstand wave after endless wave of orc. Their numbers and strength dwindled with each attack. Eventually, and likely soon, they would fail.

Asfaloth was blowing with pain. Glorfindel turned around to face the elves of his House. The younger soldiers were huddled together, shaking behind shields emblazoned with the emblem of the rising sun. They looked up at him with desperate eyes, waiting for him to say something that would return their courage to them, anything at all that could guide them through this unending nightmare. 

But Glorfindel’s own spirit was tired, hopeless. His mouth ran dry.

Hoofbeats approached from behind. Ranaroch reached reflexively for the bow on his back, but Glorfindel held up his hand to stay him. These were not orcs. 

The large, graceful shape of a bay gelding appeared through the ash, followed by the familiar gleaming spike of Ecthelion’s helm. Behind him marched the House of the Fountain. Glorfindel’s heart grew a little lighter. They could hold out for a while longer now, at least. He nudged Asfaloth and rode up alongside Ecthelion.

“How is it?” asked Ecthelion quietly.

Glorfindel shook his head.

“Not well. The young ones are losing heart. I can’t blame them. We aren’t going to last.”

“Talk to them, Glorfindel. They’re your men. They’ll listen to you.”

“Ilúvatar, what do I say to them?” snapped Glorfindel, “To fight for honor? For goodness? We’ve already lost. They’ve watched their friends die, and know there’s no hope. And I’m to tell them to go die along with them. Tell me, Ecthelion, how shall I do that?”

Ecthelion’s eyes flashed. He dug his heel into the gelding’s side and thundered past Glorfindel, halting before the assembled Gondolindrim. His hair was matted with blood and dirt, but he sat proud and tall in the saddle, sword in hand.

Forty weary pairs of eyes looked back at him. 

His voice, already halfway hoarse, rang out through the ruined Market Square.

“I have no speech for you,” he shouted, “I have no words of comfort. Gondolin is lost. We are hopelessly outmanned. Now should be the time for us to cut losses and run.”

There was an uncertain murmuring from the men. They had not expected this.

“But there’s nowhere to run, men of the Gondolindrim! No sanctuary left in this forsaken world. We are desperate men, standing on desperate ground. Therefore--”

A louder murmur this time, a livelier one. They were listening. 

“Therefore we must fight, my friends. There’s nothing else we can do. Your mothers, sisters, wives and children are fleeing for the pass as we speak. The woman I love, and my unborn son are among them.”

Glorfindel watched Ecthelion with mounting admiration. How lucky they were to have him now: the Lord of the House of the Fountain, strong and handsome and unbowed, fearless in the hour of despair, because his men needed him to be. 

The scarlet sunset highlighted the ridge of Ecthelion’s brow as his face twisted viciously, and he said in a voice half-scream and half-snarl:

“_We are all that stands between the orcs and everything that we love! _We fight for our lives now and for theirs, my brothers, we fight like the trapped animals we are. All of us, together. And if we die like dogs, then Lord Glorfindel and I will die like dogs beside you.”

Every soldier stood up straight now. The terror in their faces was gone. It had been replaced not by determination, and not by hope, but by a desperate and hungry resolve. Ecthelion’s words had reached them in exactly the right way: they were ready to die. 

Glorfindel trotted Asfaloth forward. He put a hand on Ecthelion’s shoulder and raised his sword in the other.

“_For Gondolin!_” he shouted, “_To the end!_”

A distant rumble, a roar and gathering dust from the gate. Forty drawn swords flashed pale blue. They were coming.

The cry from the Gondolindrim answered as the onslaught commenced: “_To the end!_”

Glorfindel leaned forward in his saddle, hugging the wounded stallion’s neck.

“My brave Asfaloth,” he said, “One more fight. One more charge.”

The white horse bugled in answer. He put his head down and galloped into the oncoming orcs, the whites of his eyes gleaming. Glorfindel was half-aware of his men following him into the fray. Asfaloth reared amidst the ranks of the enemy. His iron-shod hooves struck an unlucky orc, breaking facial bones.

From his right, Ecthelion let out sharp cry of pain. Glorfindel turned. Ecthelion held his bleeding left arm at his side. Their eyes met briefly, and Ecthelion’s widened in warning, but not soon enough. The orc’s mace hit Glorfindel in the chest, ringing against his breastplate, and he felt the air rush out of his lungs. 

He was falling sideways out of the saddle—he was facedown in the dirt. Asfaloth pranced gingerly, trying not to step on him with his great hooves. The orcs had seen him fall. They swarmed in at once, grinning viciously.

He rolled over and tried to rise. An orc stood before him, and raised its iron blade high over his head. Glorfindel flinched and braced for the blow—

It didn’t come. Asfaloth had lunged to stand protectively over his master. The orc grunted in fury, raised his blade, and swung once more. This time, it sliced into Asfaloth’s white chest.

“No--”

Asfaloth lowed in shock and sank to his knees. Glorfindel had one brief moment to look into the the stallion’s familiar eyes—dark, long-lashed, wise and innocent—before three orcs, maddened by bloodlust, ran to where Asfaloth lay and stabbed him, over and over again, until the beautiful animal lay still in a pool of blood, and Glorfindel’s heart swelled suddenly with fresh anger and grief at the death of his loyal, brave, beautiful horse...

Ecthelion and Ranaroch had just managed to reach him then. They quickly dispatched the orcs that had killed Asfaloth. Ecthelion pulled Glorfindel to his feet.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said Glorfindel, unable to look away from Asfaloth’s body. He had saved his life. He would never have another horse like that. 

Ranaroch read his gaze, and understood. He bent over and cut off an unsullied lock of Asfaloth’s mane. Then he straightened, and tucked it into Glorfindel’s breastplate. 

“He was the gentlest of friends and the bravest of horses,” said Ranaroch, “As long as you breathe, there shall be room for him in Valinor, in the heart of the elf he loved.”

Orc corpses blanketed the ground, two layers deep. Slowly, elves were emerging from underneath the bodies.

“They got in,” said Ecthelion, “They’ll find the pass. Penlod’s back there, but they’ll need our help.”

Glorfindel wiped his blade clean on the shirt of a dead orc. He cast a final backward glance at his fallen stallion.

“Let us depart.”

The three of them turned toward the King’s Square. Those who still lived followed them.

Ø

“Eärendil!”

Idril ran against the fleeing crowds, her eyes scanning frantically for her son.

“Idril!” She heard Tuor’s voice behind her, and turned to him, white-faced.

“Tuor, I let go of Eärendil’s hand, I’ve lost him--”

The families that had not been evacuated in time were running toward the secret pass, clutching babies to their chests and pulling young children along. The older boys walked alongside, knives and bows at the ready. They cleared from Idril’s path as they recognized her, but did not stop.

“Eärendil!”

Both parents shouted for their son. The current of escaping civilians parted before them as they walked back into the abandoned ruin, back toward danger. Even now, the two of them conveyed a kind of calm strength, a frightening authority. None dared stand between them and what they searched for.

There were sudden screams up ahead. The two looked at one another wildly. The screams had come from the Academy-- from the people trapped inside.

“Keep looking,” he said, and ran toward the source of the cries.

Idril pressed on alone.

Tuor rushed through the Academy doors. Pandemonium lay within: tables upturned and askew; blood on the floor, and at least two corpses; families crouched against the marble wall as a living orc advanced, snarling. 

He lunged after the orc, just as it extended its leathery hands toward a ten-year-old girl, who, trembling, wrapped her arms tighter around her crying younger brother. The orc turned its ugly head as Tuor raised his axe, but it was too late. He struck the creature square between the shoulderblades, and it fell with a bellow. The two children darted quickly aside. 

Tuor turned his attention to the bodies in the center of the room. They belonged to two orcs, and one woman.

“Tuor!”

Kemelin was rising from the ground, covered in black blood. Her right hand held a curved knife, also smeared with blood. She looked frightened, but unhurt.

“Kem, are you all right?”

“We are now. Thanks to you.”

“And to you. Well done with those two.”

Tuor gestured toward the two corpses.

“Thanks,” said Kemelin, “I was lucky. Their mother was not.”

Tuor looked again at the dead woman. She had been stabbed in the chest. Like Kemelin, she held a bloodied, curved blade in her right hand. He noted, with dismay, the striking resemblance her face bore to the young girl he had just saved. 

Kemelin turned to address the families huddled against the wall, “Get up! Go now!”

The crouching elves rose at her words and ran past through the door, to join the others fleeing toward the pass. As the last one left, Kemelin paused before following, and turned to Tuor.

“Have you seen Narfin anywhere?” she asked.

“No,” said Tuor, “I’m sorry.”

Kemelin made no reply. She took Tuor’s hand and they walked out of the Academy into noise and strife. Somewhere out here was everyone they cared for and loved. Somewhere, dead or alive.

Suddenly, an explosion rocked the earth. An infinite-sounding roar split through the whole city, followed by cries of shock and confusion. Tuor and Kemelin stood frozen, and watched the ground open up in the distance, spewing rock and rubble into the sky.

Ø

Ten minutes.

The tunnels echoed with the marching footsteps of hundreds of orcs. The battalion spanned the entire width of the passage, countless rows deep. Maeglin rode ahead of them on Mothwing’s back. Next to him rode their chief, an orc he had recognized instantly: his one-eared tormentor from the cells of Angband.

Five minutes.

“How much further to the palace?”

“Patience,” said Maeglin, “We’re almost there.”

They rode on. Maeglin stared straight ahead, his expression inscrutable. Beneath him, Mothwing snorted, uneasy at how close she was to the orc’s mount: an enormous black warg that kept snapping its jaws.

Two minutes.

“Blackbird,” said the one-eared orc, using the nickname he had favored when he had held Maeglin prisoner, “What happened before, in Angband--”

“We needn’t speak of it. You were only doing your duty,” said Maeglin, “And I know you stopped your fellows from doing worse to me. I know that you never enjoyed seeing me suffer like they did. For that I am grateful.”

The orc bared his teeth.

“We’re on the same side now,” he said, “So I might as well tell you that you’re right. I didn’t like what I had to do to you. But I did it all the same, didn’t I? I’m sorry, Blackbird. For what it’s worth.”

Thirty seconds.

In a flash, Maeglin drew his sword and stabbed the warg in the haunches. The orc shot him a brief look of bewilderment and betrayal as the beast roared in pain, and careened wildly down into the tunnels. At the same time, Maeglin sank his heels into Mothwing’s flanks as hard as he could, and she flew into a full gallop after the warg.

There was a deafening roar as the mining charges Maeglin had set half an hour ago all exploded at once behind them. Then the stone ceiling of the passage was collapsing, the dim light streaming in from above as rock cracked and rained down enormous sheets, drowning out the screams of the hundreds of orcs as they were buried alive.

Ø

The marble wall was cool and smooth against Turgon’s palm. Leering, the orcs filtered into the circular chamber of the King’s Tower.

“ _ Turgon, High King of the Noldor _ ,” taunted an orc with filmy, blood-red eyes, “You’re not ‘High King’ of shit now, are you? Look at him, all alone. By Morgoth, even your guard has abandoned you.”

Indeed, the King’s Guard was gone. Turgon had ordered them to leave when they heard the orcs closing in.  _ They want me _ , he had said,  _ me, and not you. Save yourselves. Your king commands you: leave me, save yourselves, and save the ones you love _ .

He had embraced each of them. Elemmakil had wept. But they had obeyed.

He was alone now in his tower, facing the wall he had built, five hundred years ago or more. He had placed this stone with his own hands. 

Beyond, the city was burning. From behind, his death approached.

They said that in Nargothrond, and in Doriath, the doomed had destroyed everything they owned when ruin came. They had ripped priceless tapestries from the wall and burned them, had smashed fine pottery on the floor. They had found a horrible solace in knowing that the enemy would never be able to use these beloved things as their own, that these precious objects would be burned and broken before reaching the hands of the invaders.

It was his turn now. His turn not to let them take what was his. 

He loved this city. It was his creation, his home, his legacy. Great Gondolin, king of elven kingdoms. Gleaming stone over impenetrable fortifications. Fountains and gardens, markets and music. But Gondolin was more than its magnificence, more than its majesty, which had no rival. Gondolin was sanctuary. And he had kept it secret, kept it safe in a world that had been overrun by wickedness and treachery.

Now, he would see it utterly destroyed, reduced to rubble before he let it fall into Morgoth’s hands: before orc feet trod over the palace steps on which Eärendil once played, drank their stinking wine in the ballroom where his daughter fell in love, flew black banners from the towers he built in his father’s memory.

No. They would never touch what belonged to him.

Forty orcs drew back their bowstrings with an echoing creak.

Turgon could almost feel a pulse underneath his hand where it touched the wall, a warmth. If he listened hard enough he could almost hear the stone breathe.

“Speak your final words now, O  _ Turukáno _ the Wise.”

Turukáno? There were some, then, who still knew him by his birth name. Even upon the orc’s rough tongue, the name bore him into the past. He had had a mother and father once. A brother and a sister. A wife.

“Elenwë.”

The whispered name was familiar on his tongue calling for her. As though she heard his plea across all the years and all the distance that separated them, an unexpected lightness touched his heart. He could almost find her scent in the acrid air. 

They had said that true love was but a myth, that human hearts were not two halves of a whole, but separate things that must learn to beat together or beat alone. They said that passion cools, lovers grow apart and grow bitter, and you learn to love the one you chose, never certain you made the right choice. 

But, just this once, they were wrong. He alone, of all of his siblings, had found perfection in being with another, an unflagging and pure love that had sustained them, like a magical elixir, through war and through exile. 

Her gray eyes had laughed when he first spluttered his confession, incredulous a woman like her could love the bookish, soft-spoken young man he had been. In sheer disbelief, he had waited, youthful cynic he was, for that love to wane, for differences to arise. They didn’t.

Those eyes had looked up at him from the baby she held at her breast, looked up at him full of love and mystery. And Idril had been born with Aredhel’s face, but with Elenwë’s grace, her habits, her way of tilting her head when she smiled.

Their Idril. When she was nine, he had carried her away from her dead mother, turning away so she could not see him cry. But Idril found him out. She hadn’t understood that Mama was gone, but she saw the tears, and wiped them away with her small hands.

Idril, the young girl, wailing in his arms with skinned knees. Idril, the woman, who had ruled with strength he never knew she had. When he had wondered how she came to be so wise, and so good, she had said-- with a smile, a tilt of her chin-- said that she learned from her father. Giving her up to Tuor was by far the hardest thing he had ever had to do. But by Ilúvatar, he would see her happy. He would see her happy even if it rent his heart in two.

Turgon turned around to face them. In the hour of his death, his eyes were proud and serene. He withdrew his hand from the wall. Beneath it lay a tiny, shining piece of metal: a flint.

“Forgive me, Idril.”

A blinding flash, a roar like thunder, forty black arrows sailing through the air. 

The Tower of the King fell down on them.

Ø

Those still running for the pass reeled and cried out as the second explosion rang out from the direction of the palace, minutes after the first. Then there were shouts of despair, shouts that multiplied as people saw what was happening to the Tower of the King: it was crashing to the ground, in waves, filling the air with rock and sulfur.

Tuor ran to Idril. She fell to her knees, her hands over her face, her scream inaudible beneath the roar of the falling tower. Even her frantic search for Eärendil could not quell her crushing grief then. Tuor was unable to hear her screaming sobs, but he could make out the shape her lips made over and over again:  _ Papa. Papa _ .

He held out his arms to his wife to hold her up, to offer some kind of comfort. But as though she hadn’t seen, she stopped shaking, wiped her face forcefully on her arm, and got up. No longer weeping, she still stared in the direction of the tower that had just buried her father. She looked a thousand years older.

Her father, her king, was dead. What remained of her old world was gone, and she was leader of the Noldor now. Already, her people were looking toward her for guidance, people who needed her more than ever. She turned toward Tuor with fire in her eyes.

“Come, Tuor,” she said in a voice calm and powerful, “There’s still more we must do.”

Ø

The second explosion rocked the ground they fought on. Elf and orc alike ceased to battle for a full minute, fixated on the sight of the falling tower. The orcs shouted in glee. Glorfindel’s heart plummeted. Turgon dead. What would become of them?

“Glorfindel,” said Ecthelion urgently, “Look!”

“I know,” said Glorfindel in despair, “I see.”

“No— _ look _ ! There!”

Glorfindel frowned and turned toward the direction in which Ecthelion tugged his arm. He gasped. His insides filled with sheer, primitive fear.

It was a Balrog. Two stories tall, eerily silent, it crawled over the rubble with the unsettling grace of an insect. Three enormous, lidless orange eyes protruded on stalks from each side of its skeletal face, which was filled with a thousand needle-like teeth, and wreathed in flame. As they watched, it raked a many-fingered claw over the ground, leaving glowing gouges behind, and threw its head back to emit a keening screech.

As it raised its claw again, a few orcs scattered out of its path. But the Balrog showed no interest at all in the puny beings waging war around it. Without slowing its pace, it crawled onward, southward, over the fountains and straight toward the secret pass.

When Ecthelion realized this, his face paled. Before Glorfindel could stop him, Ecthelion took off galloping on his horse, chasing down the hulking horror that slouched toward the ones he loved.

“Ecthelion!”

Ecthelion was already at the far end of the courtyard, and had stopped short, straight in the Balrog’s path.

_“Get out of my way, elf_,” the Balrog said. Its voice was steam hissing through metal. It swatted carelessly at Ecthelion, whom it saw as a mere irritation, a trifling obstacle. 

In response, Ecthelion pulled his bow from his back and sent an arrow flashing through the air to embed in the Balrog’s hide. It roared in pain and fury, and raked its claw through the air, this time intending to kill. Ecthelion leapt nimbly off his horse and onto the Balrog’s claw as it swept past. Surefooted as a cat, he climbed onto the skeletal shoulder, up to the base of one black wing. 

The beast swung its horrible head in confusion, and the elf drew his sword. With what must have taken unearthly strength, he plunged the entire blade into the Balrog’s shoulder.

“He’s gone mad,” said Ranaroch, from the ground where he and Glorfindel stood. They could only watch helplessly as Ecthelion struggled to retrieve his sword. It was insane, indeed, hopeless, stupid. A heavy realization dawned on Glorfindel.

It grew clearer with each desperate moment that Ecthelion did not intend to survive this, that he was throwing himself into the fire to protect the last, tiny flicker of hope inside him: that the ones he loved still lived, that his sacrifice would mean they might make it out alive.

The beast screeched in pain at the blow, bucking and twisting. Its writhing body hit the edge of the fountain, and the marble cracked, sending a statue toppling to the ground. No one on the ground had been fighting for quite some time now. Orc and elf alike watched as Ecthelion’s body arced through the air and collided with a slanted roof, where he lay motionless.

The Balrog laughed. Smoke curled forth from its jaws. Ecthelion’s sword remained in its shoulder, the hilt protruding at the base of the wing. It surveyed its small, foolhardy adversary with all six round, lidless eyes.

“ _ ‘House of the Fountain’ _ ,” it mocked him, flicking its tongue through numerous teeth at the emblem on his breastplate, “You must be Lord Ecthelion. Do you know who I am, O great Lord Ecthelion? I am Gothmog. I have incinerated cities. I have devoured hundreds of your kind. I crushed the great Fëanor into the dirt, cracked King Fingon’s bones in my jaws and spat him out dead. They were stronger than you, greater than you. Your life is useless and small. But I will gladly take it.”

From on the roof, Ecthelion stirred. He gripped the spire next to him and pulled himself up, trembling with the effort. His left arm hung limply at his side.

_ You can do it, Ecthelion _ , thought Glorfindel desperately,  _ I know you can. You rallied men to fight when all hope was lost. And you can do the impossible again. _

Once more, the Balrog swiped at the wounded elf, and once more, he leapt aside, more sluggishly this time. Gothmog reared. The rows of teeth parted, prepared to crush Ecthelion between them. They saw Ecthelion deftly crouch down then, a cat preparing to pounce. This was the only chance he would have.

“No. Damn it, no.” Glorfindel gripped Ranaroch’s arm as he saw what Ecthelion was going to do, a second before it happened.

Ecthelion dove off the roof as Gothmog reared, wielding the only weapon left to him: a knife no longer than his forearm. For an instant, he lingered in the air, weightless-- then the tip of the blade disappeared into the Balrog’s underbelly. Gothmog screeched in pain and surprise as Ecthelion plummeted, his knife slicing a straight, vertical line down its belly along the path of his own lethal fall. Thick black viscera oozed from the slit. 

“Ecthelion!”

Down the dying elf fell, his body twisting through the air, his dark hair streaming behind. A crimson jet of water shot up into the sky as he plunged backward into the fountain.

There was a second crash, as Gothmog’s eviscerated body collapsed, but Glorfindel never noticed. He and the survivors of the House of the Fountain ran to where Ecthelion lay motionless in the pool. The gentle current lapped against him, spreading his blood through the entire pool from where it still poured out of him.

Glorfindel waded through red water toward his fallen friend. He knelt and gently lifted him. Blood streamed over Glorfindel’s armor, pouring down into the pool as fast as life was leaving Ecthelion. Glorfindel held him tightly, as if to hold the life inside him, to hold back the inexorable flow of death. 

Ecthelion’s eyes were still unmistakably alive, locked on Glorfindel’s own, pleading with him. He tried to speak, but only a pitiful gurgling came out: his neck was broken.

“It’s all right now, dear friend,” said Glorfindel, “You won. That monster is dead. He’ll never harm anyone again. Your family is safe now, thanks to you.”

Ecthelion gave a weak shudder of relief, and then resumed staring at Glorfindel with pleading intensity. Once more, Glorfindel had to guess at what he meant.

“They’ll want for nothing,” he said, gently rocking him, “I promise you. I’ll take care of the woman you love. I’ll raise your child as my own. The world will know, forever, how you’ve saved us all, and your son will understand why you couldn’t watch him grow up. Now go in peace to Valinor, noble and brave Lord Ecthelion. We’ll carry on from here.”

Other hands reached over Glorfindel’s shoulders to rest on Ecthelion’s broken body. The last of the House of the Fountain had knelt down beside them in the water, in a small circle around their leader. 

Ecthelion smiled. He looked up at each set of eyes in turn before leaning his face into the crook of Glorfindel’s arm. His body suddenly grew heavier. 

Glorfindel returned him, gently, back into the waters of the fountain he had loved so much. He stood. The last men of the House of the Fountain rose with him, their arms around one another, softly crying.

No, not crying. Singing. Singing, all around, in chilling harmony, for a man who had gone in life as lordly as a gander, but who was brought to tears by a beautiful song. 

Glorfindel bowed his head and walked away, leaving them to their grief, away from his prying eyes.


	21. The Fall (II)

The one-eared orc surveyed the mountain of rubble choking off the tunnel. His entire battalion lay beneath. Two hundred strong, crushed to death in mere seconds. He had pleaded with Morgoth not to trust this elf. This orc had known Blackbird better than anyone in Angband. He alone had recognized that the prisoner’s defection would not last-- that he was more resilient than their devices and made of more than the weakness they had exploited to break him.

Fundamentally, Morgoth, in all his power, had never understood elves. He had slaughtered them. Tortured them. Broken them down limb by limb, stretched them to the limits of suffering, trying to understand what made them tick. 

Thus the orcs, in which he had meant to replicate elves, came out distorted and vile. Cunning and wicked though he was, Morgoth remained as envious and shortsighted as a child. His clumsy attempt to conjure life could produce only horrible brutes little better than animated corpses, who knew only to kill, and eat, and follow orders. All of them, except one.

He, the one-eared orc, was the exception. Somehow, he had crawled into the world knowing what his own creator didn’t: empathy, the ability to feel another’s suffering as one’s own, the reason one elf could throw herself in front of a deadly arrow to save another, but an orc would never do the same. 

It was the reason he, monster though he was, had stopped the others from hurting the elf more than they needed to. It was the reason he knew it had been Blackbird’s mind, trying to save him from the pain of feeling, that had succumbed to Morgoth-- not his heart.

His panicked warg had run off into the tunnels. Maeglin held a blade to his throat.

“Why did you leave me alive?” asked the orc.

“Because I wanted you to see it,” Maeglin replied savagely, “Because I wanted you to see them all die, so you might feel a fraction of what you’ve done to us.”

The orc shook his head, looking up at Maeglin in disbelief.

“You’re lying,” he said, “You spared me out of— _ honor _ . Because of Angband. Because I stopped the others from toying with you. You left me alive for… for  _ that _ ?”

Begrudgingly, Maeglin set his jaw in assent.

“One dignity for another.”

“You shouldn’t do this, Blackbird,” said the orc, “You really ought to kill me now. If you let me go, I’m going to kill more of your people. You know I’d kill you if our roles were reversed.”

“No,” said Maeglin, “You won’t. And you wouldn’t. Because you, of all the orcs in Arda, know the difference between right and wrong. You won’t kill after I’ve just spared your life.” 

Black elf eyes met the orc’s yellow orbs. Maeglin could see the uncertainty therein, the struggle to comprehend this act of mercy. He could see humanity. 

“So I’m giving you a chance,” continued Maeglin, “Go now, back to Morgoth, and pass along a message: that the kingdom of elves will survive the fall of Gondolin. It lives not in stone walls or towers, but in the hearts of elves, in the love that remains even after everything else is gone. It lives in the hearts of his own servants, in the very midst of evil, as it lives in me. You and I are proof of this. Cities may fall, and we may die, but as long as there is one creature living that cares about another, then he hasn’t won. And he will never win.”

The orc’s leathery brow furrowed as Maeglin’s words sank in.

“If you die delivering this message, orc,” the elf went on, “Then you’ll die on the right side of good and evil. I’m giving you a chance. I’m asking you now. Choose.”

Maeglin lowered his sword. Instinctively, the orc’s hand flew behind him and gripped the handle of his mace-- but then, slowly, his eyes never leaving Maeglin’s, he released it.

“You’re right,” he said, “I never understood why we had to hurt you elves like this. The war, the sack, the torture. But I went along with it. I did what I was told. There’s likely more elf blood on my hands than any other orc in Arda. But you’re right, Blackbird. I want the thing you’re offering me now. If you can spare some pity in that immortal heart of yours for a monster who changed his mind, then I’ll gladly take it. Let me go. I will deliver your message to Morgoth.”

Saying nothing, Maeglin slid his sword back into the scabbard and inclined his head, letting the orc walk free. He watched, for a moment, as the orc turned his back and made his way through the rubble and ruin, disappearing into the dust. 

Satisfied, he whispered to Mothwing. She bounded surefooted as a cat over the flames, in the direction of the smithy.

Ø

Glorfindel, Ranaroch, and the remainder of those that had fought in King’s Square proceeded toward the secret pass, bows in hand. The king was dead. Ecthelion was dead. The House of the Golden Flower whittled down to nothing, the city in ruins.

If you had told Glorfindel a week ago these things would come to pass, he would have laughed. There had been no warning that Morgoth had assembled army that size. There had been no sign the orcs would march to the hidden gates of Gondolin.

Or had there been? Glorfindel frowned suddenly as the doubts he had harbored for the last year returned to him: the inexplicably tripled drilling hours in peacetime; the unprecedented announcement of the construction of a southern palace; the hastily erected scaffold. 

But there had been no palace. What  _ did _ lie near the scaffold was the entrance to Idril’s secret pass. How had she known to build such a thing? 

Then he remembered the last time he had spoken to Maeglin: such a horrible, hollow look had been in his eyes. Such unexplained torment, shame and anger. Glorfindel’s heart grew cold as the awful truth began to surface like a dead thing in the water.

As the elves walked toward the pass, their blades began to glow faintly blue. They could hear footsteps behind. Two sets. Orcs.

“I’ll take care of them,” said Glorfindel, “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up later.”

Ranaroch hesitated, about to protest, but then glanced back at the pass. 

“Be careful,” was all he said, and Glorfindel touched his shoulder as they parted ways.

Hidden in a veil of ashes, Glorfindel quietly approached the two orcs. As they drew near, he could hear them growl at each other in guttural Common Tongue.

“You’re sure? You’re absolutely certain?” one orc was saying to the other, “Did you see it for yourself?”

“No, but it doesn’t take a genius,” snapped the second orc, “He led those soldiers underground, we all knew that. Then the tunnels collapsed. That was no accident.”

“The houses all empty, the women and children gone,” snarled the first orc in furious realization, “That bastard elf, he robbed us, plain as day.”

“Utter filth,” agreed the other, “But he’s done for. He had better hope he dies tonight. If Morgoth doesn’t torture him for the rest of eternity, then his own people will.”

Glorfindel crept closer. It was true then. Emotion seeped over him, wildly disparate feelings he could not reconcile. He was furious enough to strangle the blood traitor, the coward that had sold them to Morgoth like sheep, leaving Ecthelion’s child fatherless, leaving his dearest friends dead. And yet, he surely would have wept in pity even as he closed his hands around Maeglin’s neck, as he thought of Morgoth’s cruel devices, as he considered the terrible lonely secret Maeglin had kept in silence upon his return to the very people he had doomed.

Truthfully, he had tried to forget about Maeglin. For his own sanity, he closed the door and walked away after their friendship had shriveled away in the summer like that damned waterfall. Now, in the smoldering twilight, memories of the bright, fleeting years of his friendship with Maeglin came streaming back. 

He remembered the spring night, the  _ Nost-na-Lothion  _ ball, and Maeglin at the edge of the room: so wounded and defiant, so darkly pretty in his plain colors.  _ Nightingale _ , Glorfindel had thought,  _ nightingale singing amidst the buntings, how beautifully you wear your loneliness _ .  _ Each of your black feathers an injustice you bore, a battle you lost. Sit by me, wayward creature, and tell me from whence you came. Let us fly together tonight like birds of Spring. _

As carefully as he could, he had shown Maeglin his heart. On the night where everyone fell in love, their two souls brushed aside an invisible veil and touched. Maeglin had laughed. He had danced. He had laid bare his own guarded heart. He had taken the hands Glorfindel held out to him and tried to walk a different path, a harder one: the right one. Though he had strayed, he found his way back alone. 

Love came pouring through Glorfindel’s bitterness. He hoped beyond hope he would have a chance to see Maeglin again. He hoped to be able to forgive him one day.

The orcs had passed him without noticing, and Glorfindel now tailed them covertly.

“How much farther till the pass?”

The other orc’s answer sent a chill down his spine:

“It’s just up ahead. A shame about Gothmog, but the other Balrog’s on its way.”

The ugly laughter of the pair was cut short by one swift arc of Glorfindel’s blade. Two heads, both wearing an expression of vague surprise, rolled to the ground. Glorfindel wiped his blade and hurried in the direction the two orcs had come from: the direction from which the Balrog was coming.

Ø

Eärendil coughed and spat ashes out of his mouth. His vision was blurring with tears, both from terror and the blinding heat. A burning branch cracked overhead and fell in his path, showering him with hot orange sparks. He floundered, chose a new path, and ran. His seven-year-old legs burned in fatigue. He couldn’t see. He didn’t know where he was. He had let go of his mother’s hand, just for a moment. And then she was gone.

“Mama!”

The sound was drowned out by the crackling of flame and the din of battle from beyond.

_ I’m going to die. _

He cried as this thought popped into his head. The air was filled with poison. His head began to ache. He trudged on.

“Mama.”

He hadn’t the strength to shout anymore.

He crouched and hugged scraped knees to his chest. Surely he could rest for just a moment. He was so dizzy, so sleepy…

A pair of ugly black boots crunched gravel as they appeared before him. A rough hand gripped his hair and pulled him upward. Then his eyes were level with a huge, leering, leather-skinned face.

Cold terror consumed him, even in his exhaustion. The orc’s yellow eyes took in the fine clothes Eärendil wore, the insignia of the House of the King that fastened his little cloak, the resemblance between the child’s eyes and the late king’s. Black lips parted in elation as, even in his dull mind, he realized his incidental captive was none other than Turgon’s young heir.

Eärendil plunged his hand into his shirt and found his pocketknife. Gripped by adrenaline, he raised it and slashed across the orc’s hideous visage. There was a roar of fury and pain, and thick blood coated Eärendil’s hand. The knife was knocked aside.

Eärendil whimpered as the orc’s giant hand closed around his forearm and began to twist hard.

“You’ll pay for that, whelp. Morgoth wants you alive, not whole…”

The deep throbbing in his arm increased as the orc tightened his grip. Eärendil gasped in pain. Any second, he felt his elbow would surely burst from the force.

There was a sharp whistling sound followed by a grotesque, wet, squirting noise. Now an arrow-point protruded from the orc’s left eye. Its face went slack before its arms went limp, releasing Eärendil, and it collapsed into the dirt. Eärendil rose, shaken, and looked up. An elf was standing where the orc had been, shouldering his bow.

“Uncle?”

“Eärendil, are you all right?”

Eärendil shook with relief. He stumbled over to where Maeglin stood and wrapped his arms tightly around his waist, burying his face in his abdomen. Maeglin gently pried him away.

“I’m not going anywhere, boy. Breathe through this.”

A cool rag was placed over his nose and mouth. He held it to his face as Maeglin picked him up. Eärendil wrapped his other arm around Maeglin’s neck.

“Rest now, Eärendil. We’re going to find your mother.”

He complied, half-closing his eyes. He dimly noticed Maeglin produce something bright white and shimmering from his pocket. A stone… no, a jewel. It shone like a star through the ash-ridden air… it was beautiful. Eärendil’s eyes followed this point of light, transfixed, as Maeglin tucked it into the front of Eärendil’s clothes and looped its  _ mithril _ chain over his head.

“This is the Elessar, Eärendil. It will keep you safe. Don’t lose it.”

Eärendil nodded. In the years to come, he would only half-remember the events that had just come to pass, as though in a dream. He would never be quite sure whether or not it really had been his uncle who placed the Elessar on him. The jewel hummed with life, warm against his chest. The world somehow seemed to brighten even as they made their way through flame and ruin. Somehow, the Elessar’s light could reach inside him, and gave him hope.

“Eärendil!”

Eärendil’s eyes flew open at the sound of the voice.

“Mama!”

His mother’s arms were around him, pulling him out of Maeglin’s.

“Idril--” began Maeglin, but Idril never gave him a chance.

“Traitor! Coward! You will die before you touch my boy again!”

Idril held Eärendil tightly and turned him away from Maeglin, shielding him from the man she believed would hurt him. 

Maeglin had had started again to explain, to say something, anything, to he hadn’t meant to harm the boy-- but something about Idril, throwing her own body between Maeglin and her son, stopped his tongue. A mother, in a heartbeat, throwing herself in danger to save her child. Is this what Eöl had seen seconds before his javelin hit home?

“How could you?” screamed Idril, “After all he did for you? After everything?”

Tears were streaming down her face unchecked, tears of anger and grief she hated to give Maeglin the satisfaction of seeing.

“Idril, please…”

He took a step closer to her, but she fumbled at the chain she wore around her neck and flashed her knife at him. 

“Don’t bother. Don’t tell me you redeemed yourself with a change of heart. Don’t tell me you’ve won back your innocence by betraying Morgoth like you betrayed us. You waited six months.  _ Six months _ . You think one noble deed atones for your failure? You think it will shine through your darkness and erase your poison? You deserve to die, not us. You deserve to  _ burn _ .”

She stood there with specks of ash on her face, with red and exhausted eyes, with her son cradled in her arm and her knife out, shaped like the crescent moon. The gentle-hearted barefoot girl, the carefree, forgiving fawn she was, had died in the Tower of the King. 

A she-wolf stood before him now, a thing with teeth and claws. And she would not grant him his redemption. She would have flayed him alive all over again with her own hands, a hundred times over, to have her Papa back. She would have cast his wretched, beaten form over Caragdûr herself.

Dread filled Maeglin as he realized this. It hadn’t been enough, after all. If he was still damned in Idril’s eyes, then he really did deserve to burn. As he searched for words, Tuor appeared behind his wife with his sword drawn.

“Papa, wait,” said Eärendil, but no one heard. Idril cast one more venomous glare at Maeglin and spat on the ground before him. She sheathed her knife and carried her son toward the pass without looking back.

Tuor and Maeglin stood alone at the edge now, circling each other like dogs. Blood tinged the edges of Maeglin’s vision. In his ears was a muffled ringing.

“Tuor,” he said again, “I wasn’t going to harm Eärendil.”

“You’re a damned liar,” said Tuor, and raised his sword with both hands. Their blades clashed as Maeglin parried Tuor’s blow, but not easily. Tuor fought clumsily, his judgment clouded by anger. He swung, missed Maeglin, and nearly lost his balance. But Maeglin did not seize the chance to strike him then.

“I swear,” said Maeglin, “I would die before I hurt your son. I was trying to help--”

“ _ Like you tried to help Turgon? _ ” yelled Tuor, his face blotched in rage, “ _ And Ecthelion?  _ They’re gone, better men than you, braver men than you. You dare to stand before me and speak my son’s name? Fight back, you damned coward. Tell me you didn’t betray us. Tell me you’re not the reason they’re dead.”

Tuor had seen the guilt in his eyes. He took it for a confession, and lunged at Maeglin again, who leapt aside. Maeglin was not as strong as Tuor, but he was quick, even now. In a bitter stalemate they pushed each other at the edge of the wall, their shadows elongated in the dancing light of the flames below. Suddenly, Maeglin’s blade flashed a bright, pale blue. His face blanched in the firelight.

“They are coming,” he said, “Run, Tuor, I’m begging you.”

“You’re not getting away so easily,” snarled the man.

The elf gave the faintest of nods then. The time had come. He lowered his sword. A sudden, inexplicable inspiration seized Tuor, and his hand flew to the hilt of the sword he wore at his hip: Anguirel, the black blade Maeglin’s father had forged, Maeglin’s gift to him at Eärendil’s birth. So much for good will. So much for a new start. People didn’t change, after all.

Anguirel arced through the air with its signature liquid swooping sound. Tuor sensed almost a sentient will in the blade as its tip found its mark. It pierced through Maeglin’s chest with a triumphant splintering and hum. 

Tuor yanked the weapon back. Blood sprayed from the wound, speckling Tuor’s face. Maeglin fell forward, and the man caught him with both arms, as though trying to soften his fall. Maeglin gasped for breath, eyes glazed in shock, instinctively fighting for life despite the sure, swift onset of death.

“ _ May-- you-- burn _ ,” hissed Tuor, and threw Maeglin over the wall. Maeglin struck the wall twice before plunging into the flickering darkness. Impulsively, Tuor hurled Anguirel into the crevasse after the body. That strange, sentient presence of the sword was gone. It had fulfilled its purpose.

He turned and followed his wife and son to the pass.

Ø

Elemmakil waited by the stable door. Inside, a woman was groaning. His eyelids flickered at the sound of a long, drawn-out scream. He gave the faintest exhalation of relief at what came next: a loud, healthy newborn’s cry.

A few minutes later, the door opened. Gilwen stood there, holding a baby still flecked with caul and blood, swaddled in a mantle.

“How is she?” asked Elemmakil.

“Narfin’s well. Thank Nienna. The baby’s early, but fine. Come in. We must hurry.”

Elemmakil hesitated before following her.

“Does she know?” he asked quietly, and Gilwen fixed him with a hard stare.

“No. And you mustn't tell her, understand? Not until they’re both out of the city. If she asks—if she says anything about Ecthelion—you’ll say you don’t know. You’ll say the last you heard, he was alive.”

If Elemmakil felt anything in response to Gilwen’s words, he did not show it. He placed his hands over his heart and bowed: the Noldorin sign of a sacred promise. He led his horse into the stable to where Narfin lay, her brilliant red hair lank, and her cheeks glistening with sweat, but smiling.

“Where is Ecthelion?” she asked, catching her breath, “When will he meet his father?”

Elemmakil bent down and carefully wrapped a horse-blanket around her. Then he lifted her sideways onto his horse.

“It won’t be long, my lady,” he said, “He’ll be very proud. He always wanted a son.”

Gilwen placed the infant in Narfin’s arms.

“Go. Quickly.”

Elemmakil nudged his horse. They cantered out of the stable, leaving Gilwen alone.

Just then, there was a second whinny, followed by the sound of hooves growing closer, not fainter. Gilwen frowned. Had they come back? But the horse that trotted up to her was not Elemmakil’s. It was Mothwing: saddled, bridled, and riderless.

Ø

He fell. The silhouette of Caragdûr shrank rapidly above him. Bright red beads of blood fell alongside him, so that they seemed suspended in midair. The wind whistled past his ears, laden with his father’s laughter. Then…

Then he was weightless. Then the pain was gone. In the instant before the impact came, a memory struck him: the memory that had not come the last time he had searched for it-- 

_ It’s early on that winter afternoon when he walks through the front doors. Icy mud covers his riding boots, but he is flushed and warm from his ride. Father’s away today, and has permitted him to take the day off. Besides, the spiders are hibernating.  _

_ He has just turned sixteen. His black hair is cropped at the chin and brows, typical of Doriathi youth. His shoulders haven’t filled out, and he is slim and dark as a willow branch. His brow is clear and smooth, his thoughts preoccupied with the thought that he is fairly hungry. Humming, he steals down to the kitchen where Gilwen might have made his favorite tarts. _

_ But Gilwen isn’t there. Instead, it’s his mother he sees through the doorway, bringing a pear to her mouth, lost in thought. Her other hand is folded over her waist, and she’s slouching, leaning into her hip. He turns to leave her to her moment of tranquility.  _

_ But for some reason, he hesitates, and doubles back for another glance at her through the doorway, idly eating that pear. It gladdens him somehow to know she’s around. That he might turn any corner, look through any door, and find her standing there.  _

_ He clears his throat. _

_ “I’m home, Mama.” _

_ She startles and straightens at the sound of his voice. Then she looks straight at him and smiles a smile filled with love. She opens her arms, the bitten fruit still in her hand. He comes into them. Her long, black hair is against his cheek, the scent of her clean linen in his lungs.  _

_ He settles into the familiar shape of her embrace. She is alive. She is warm. _

_ She is there. _

Ø

Night had fallen, and with it, a steady rain. The ash began to clear from the sky. A few fires still burned dimly in the desolate remains of the city. Idril held Eärendil’s hand as they ran southward, soaking wet, toward the secret tunnel. Tuor followed behind.

Eärendil was panting, and began to lag behind.

“Faster, Eärendil,” said Idril, “We can’t stop.”

From the distance, a keening screech rent the air. 

Idril’s heart stopped. It was the cry of a Balrog. 

Eärendil sobbed in terror at the sound.

“I can’t, Mama,” he cried, “I can’t run anymore. Help me, Mama, please--”

Tuor caught up to them and picked up his son. There was another shriek, another footstep that sent muted shockwaves through the ground. The sounds were closer this time. They weren’t going fast enough. They wouldn’t make it.

Husband and wife locked eyes with identical looks of desperation. There was nowhere to hide. There was nothing left between them and the Balrog. 

“Id,” said Tuor under his breath, so his son could not hear, “Take him and keep running. I can buy us some time.”

Idril’s lip trembled.

“You can’t,” she whispered, horrified, “Not a Balrog. You’ll be killed. And for nothing.”

“Ecthelion took down Gothmog, Id,” said Tuor, “I can hold my own for a few minutes, at least. It’s our only hope. Please, love. Save our son.”

But despite these brave words, there were tears in Tuor’s eyes. He was mortal. His flesh and blood alone held him to this world. There were no Halls of Waiting, no shores of Valinor for him. It would be the last time he saw them. He had always known this day would come, but not so soon. Not like this.

“Idril! Tuor!”

They both started, bewildered, at this new voice that came from up ahead. Who was headed away from the pass, back toward King’s Square? 

They turned to see Glorfindel approaching through the fog and rain. There was a gash across his face. He seemed otherwise unhurt. But the smiling and joyful Glorfindel they knew was gone. The elf that stood before them had a cold, weary stare. 

“Are you all right?” asked Glorfindel. His voice was brusque and clipped.

“We’re fine,” gasped Idril, “But the Balrog--”

“Go. I’ll fight it.”

“Glorfindel--”

“ _ Go! _ ” commanded Glorfindel again, more harshly, “There’s no time. I’m not saying I can kill it. Go now, and don’t look back.”

But Idril hesitated still, and Glorfindel’s face softened. A ghost of his old smile reached his blue eyes as they found hers. He placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Let me do this for you, Idril,” he said, “Please. Let me give you this life. You’re the only hope the Noldor have left.”

A ragged sob tore through her. She knew he was right, and it hurt all the more. Her oldest friend. Her first love. Her Glorfindel. 

Eärendil began to cry, too, in earnest.

“No, no, no,” he shouted, struggling in his father’s arms as he reached for Glorfindel, “Not you. Not you too.”

The Balrog’s footsteps came closer still. Hastily, Glorfindel took Eärendil’s face in his hands.

“Be brave, Eärendil, do you understand?” he said, “Listen to your mother and father. Be good. Can you promise me?”

Eärendil cried all the harder.

“I promise, Glorfindel. I promise.”

Glorfindel straightened up. He exchanged resolute nods with Tuor. He leaned down to receive Idril’s tearstained kiss on his forehead. Harder and harder the rain fell, washing the blood and dirt from his armor. Lightning flashed across the sky. Glorfindel drew his sword. The stones Maeglin had set in the hilt glowed bright red. 

As though through a dream, Glorfindel walked into the Balrog’s gleam through the fog, as Tuor, Idril, and Eärendil ran for the pass. And as the flaming maw of his final adversary came into view, he thought he could hear singing, the singing of a thousand voices, though he could not be sure where from but his own heart. He thought he could hear words in the mysterious song:  _ Have courage, Glorfindel of Gondolin, have faith, and stay true. We are with you. We are with you until the very end. _

Ø

The surefooted mare carried Gilwen to the foot of the mountain, to the bottom of the abyss. Night had fallen. The rain made little rivers around the rocky crags. They were far from the battle now. It was quiet here.

“Bring me to him, Mothwing,” said Gilwen, “Bring me to your master.”

Mothwing shook out her mane, sniffed the wind, and loped onward. 

He lay still where he had fallen, his face upward, washed clean by the rain. She slipped off of Mothwing’s back and knelt in the dirt next to him. 

Gently, she lifted his eyelids and stroked the surface of his eye. There was no response. She had not expected one. 

The tears poured out of her, tears she did not bother trying to wipe away. She had brought men back to life before. Men without pulses. Men who had lost basins full of blood. But she couldn’t save him, after all. Her cleverness, her books, her training, her experiments. What had it been for? Damn it, what had it all been for?

She stroked his cold cheek with the back of her hand. 

“Lómion, you little fool, couldn’t you have waited for me? I would have followed you. I would have come with you, to wherever you’re going.”

It was so unfair, that the world would let him go like this: all alone in the rain at the bottom of this mountain. No last words, no final farewell. But Gilwen knew by now that people died in all sorts of ways that they did not deserve. And the world was not fair to any one of them, least of all to Maeglin, son of Aredhel. Though she couldn’t save his life, she had loved him when he needed to be loved, and held him, when he had needed to be held. Perhaps she had done enough. 

“Where are you, my dear one?” she said in a voice more subdued, “What do you see right this minute? I’m sorry you suffered so much. But no more. They can’t hurt you any more, Ló. You’re safe now.”

A distant rumble of thunder answered her. She knelt a long time next to that familiar body, inert to the chill of the drenching rain. She filled her eyes with every contour of his face so she could not forget it. She ran her hand along his shoulder as though to comfort him. But he wasn’t there. It wasn’t him. The only person left to comfort was herself. 

“Goodbye, now, Lómion. I wish I could have sung you one last song. I wish I had told you one last story. But as long as I draw breath, I promise you: I’m going to tell yours.”

With that, she released his hands and rose from the ground. Maeglin’s story was over, but hers was not. There were so many things she knew about him, so many things she had learned. And now she would have to learn how to live without him. 

_ I miss you, _ he had written to her one morning, _ I miss you and can’t wait to see you again _ .

She would learn to make peace with the cavern he left inside her. She would learn to love as he learned to love in the last years of his life: fully, tenderly, and selflessly. And when the world tried to crush her into the dust, she would close her eyes and hear his laughter, his laughter of defiance. Come what may. 

There was pride, fierce pride in her aching heart. Good had won in him, in spite of everything, in spite of the cold and bitter world he knew. She loved him to the end of that cold, bitter world. They had been children of the forest, the two of them, and their spirits were as strong and wild as the rivers that coursed through the trees. They would never be broken. 

Mothwing walked slowly to her side, snorting softly in grief. Gilwen embraced the mare’s gray face, felt her warm breath through her wet clothes.

“It’s not the end,” she whispered, “We’ll see him again. I don’t know when, but we will.”

_ Love, Maeglin _ .

She climbed onto Mothwing’s back. Together, they cantered away, into the night, leaving Maeglin behind. In their wisdom, they knew they were needed where they were going.


	22. Epilogue: The Last Page

_ Glorfindel stands at the prow, his elven-sight cast far eastward toward a wavering star. Moonlight, reflected on the sea, illuminates his expression: guarded, but hopeful excitement. _

_ The young man finishes tying down the sails and ambles over, yawning. _

_ “What do you see, Glorfindel?” He, too, looks eastward, but sees only fog and open water. Yet he senses that something has changed. _

_ Curundil, who was curled up asleep at the base of the mainsail, stirs, stretches, and quietly rises to join the other two mariners. In his turn, he looks to the East. His clear green eyes, like Glorfindel’s, possess the sight of the Eldar. _

_ “Ai, _ Elbereth _ ,” he mutters. He, too, sees the small cove, wreathed in jagged rock, dipping in and out of crashing gray waves far away. “This is what you sought, Glorfindel?” _

_ “I think so,” replies Glorfindel, “The sight of it awakens something inside me. It is familiar, and yet not. Like an inkling, a flash of a forgotten dream.” _

_ “At last!” cries the young man, but Curundil drops his eyes, not daring to hope that behind this mere inkling lies the answer they’ve looked for. And if Glorfindel is wrong? Where will they go? What will they do? _

_ But Glorfindel strides already toward the rudders, conversing with himself as he consults the bronze compass in his palm. His practiced fingers adjust their course to sail straight into the cove. Curundil has never seen Glorfindel like this: usually his companion, despite the warm smile he reserves for his friends, is distant and pensive. But now a boyish exuberance grips his tall frame. Curundil is reminded of a long-legged hare crouched in the brush, prepared to run. Slowly, he, too, lifts up his heart, and he dares timidly to hope. _

_ The cove nears. The surf turns to roiling froth, and pointed rocks loom on either side. The young man has taken over at the bow, weaving the small ship inland with his wiry arms. At last, the pitching of the craft awakens their last companion, who climbs stiffly onto the deck. As they near the black mouth of rock, even his aged eyes can discern its craggy silhouette. _

_ He shudders with the old fear of the unknown. Yet he will follow the smiling blond elf into the dark of that maw, through the perilous water and the jutting rock. He loves Glorfindel with his tired mortal heart, as they all do. They don’t know how not to love him. _

_ They’re close enough now for the young man to begin mooring the ship in the shallows. Dark clouds have gathered in front of the moon. The cove yawns ahead, darker and larger than it first seemed. Glorfindel springs up to the rail, preparing to disembark in a single, graceful leap. As his companions move to follow him, he stops them with his pale blue stare. _

_ “This is where I leave you,” he says, his tone cheerful as ever, but firm. _

_ “Glorfindel--” begins the young man, but Glorfindel raises his hand. _

_ “Stay,” he commands again. “I know you’ve come with me a long way. And shortly we will journey together again. I go alone into this darkness. But the thought of you, my friends, will be with me as a light.” _

_ As he says this, they notice a faint glow at Glorfindel’s hip. Mysterious red stones shine from the hilt of a sword that they’ve never seen him wear. It’s unsettling to see their gentle companion so armed. Curundil now catches Glorfindel’s eye, and a quick, wordless conversation passes between these two elves. _

_ Then Glorfindel disappears over the side of the ship. They watch him walk into the cove alone, by the light of the strange red stones. _

_ ø _

_ The sound of crashing waves recedes as Glorfindel wanders farther into the winding cavern. The rock within, sculpted and beaten by the water over ages, hangs from the ceiling like dragon’s teeth, juts up from the floor, and even forms columns like melting candles. There are layers of white and brown in the stone, chaotic and lovely like the sea itself. _

_ Quiet now but for the trickling water and the occasional chitter of a bat. But a new sound emerges as Glorfindel plunges deeper into darkness: a low rumble, accompanied by an inexplicable hot and shifting wind. _

_ He can hear the monster breathing. _

_ But if Glorfindel is afraid, it does not show in his easy, confident bearing. It is pitch dark. Yet Glorfindel walks ever forward as though by the light of day. Indeed, the darker it gets, the more apparent it becomes that a faint glow emanates from Glorfindel himself. He is no longer the same Glorfindel who battled the Balrog at the end of Gondolin. He was changed as he passed through the Halls of Waiting-- but in just what way, no one can be sure. _

_ The guttural rumble and the heat of the beast’s breath surround him. Abruptly, Glorfindel stops. He waits in the dark, with only echoes in the deep to hint at the dimensions of the space in which he now stands. _

_ From the belly of the cave comes a seething whisper: “Who comes?” _

_ “You know me,” answers Glorfindel, “Hear my voice, creature, and remember.” _

_ The beast hisses. _

_ “I don’t know you,” it says, “Begone from here, Elf. You don’t know what I am.” _

_ Glorfindel draws his sword and holds it out in front of him. The scarlet light from the hilt is brighter than ever before. It catches the glint of curved fangs, lidless eyes, and great black feathers before the beast screeches and shrinks away from the color. _

_ “What is it?” demands the beast, “Where did you get it?” _

_ Glorfindel’s own light grows brighter still, illuminating the near walls of the cavern. It’s smaller than he first imagined. _

_ “ _ You _ gave it to me,” he steadfastly replies, “Long ago. The stones in the hilt glow when kindred is near. And so I know I need not fear you.” _

_ The next words of the beast sound almost human. _

_ “It can’t be.” _

_ “And yet it is.” _

_ “Why have you come, Elf?” _

_ Glorfindel steps forward without a trace of fear. _

_ “I’ve come to take you home.” _

_ The beast shrinks from Glorfindel’s power, raising great black wings to shield itself. _

_ “No. No! Take away your light. Leave me to my darkness, Elf. Whatever you’re looking for-- you won’t find it here.” _

_ Glorfindel takes another step toward the pitiful, cornered creature. _

_ “Come to me,” he murmurs, “Trust me. You’re not what you are.” _

_ “Leave here,” it snarls again, baring its teeth, “Go now, or I’ll tear you to shreds.” _

_ “Come to me. You’re one of us.” _

_ “I won’t go back!” screeches the beast, “There’s no place for me in the light. They’re going to tear me apart, spit at me and stone me; they’ll call me a kinslayer and a coward.” _

_ “That they may do,” Glorfindel replies, “But you won’t be alone. Because I’ll walk through the Gates of Mandos at your side, my friend. And those who cast stones must stone me too. It’s time. Come with me.” _

_ The snarling ceases. Glorfindel can feel the beast hesitating. _

_ “You’re lying,” it whimpers, “You’ll leave me. Like they all did. Like you did before.” _

_ “Not this time,” says Glorfindel softly, “I’ve come a long way to find you, friend. I’m not leaving without you. Come to me.” _

_ With a final, hissing groan, the beast slouches into the light, and Glorfindel throws his arms around its jaws, and lays his face against its horned black face. The brightness grows around them, hot and blinding white. Sharp teeth shrink away and long claws become fingers; a thousand black feathers fall from skin like an autumn leaves raining down around them. _

_ When the light fades, the beast is gone, and in its place stands a being not so different from Glorfindel himself, shivering and naked in the dark again. _

_ “Well met, Glorfindel,” says Maeglin, accepting the blanket Glorfindel offers. Black eyes, as piercing as he remembers, dart from Glorfindel’s cropped golden hair, to his coarse raiment, to his browned skin. “You’re as beautiful as you always were, friend. Yet you’ve changed.” _

_ “And you’re just the same,” says Glorfindel. He runs his own eyes over Maeglin’s shape. Then his demeanor breaks, and he stutters, “I’m sorry, Maeglin. Sorry for what happened, sorry I left. I promise you--” _

_ “Promise me nothing, Glorfindel of Gondolin,” says Maeglin, the familiar dark smile flitting across his features, “You came for me. That’s enough.” _

_ ø _

_ The three mariners await as they climb back aboard the ship. Glorfindel steadies Maeglin’s every step as he stumbles over the folds of the blanket, unused to elven limbs. _

_ Then the two of them stand side by side on the deck, with the three others arrayed before them. Glorfindel gestures. _

_ “These are my companions: Curundil, Ben and Aron.” _

_ Three simultaneous nods of greeting. _

_ “And this, friends,” Glorfindel continues, “Is Maeglin, son of Aredhel.” _

_ Curundil recoils at the sound of the name. _

_ “Traitor!” he shouts at once, and grips the handle of the dagger at his hip. Maeglin bristles. But Glorfindel steps forward, interposing himself between his two friends. _

_ “What he is shall be decided in the Halls of Mandos,” he says firmly, “But he will journey there under our protection. That was our task from the start. I couldn’t tell you until now.” _

_ Curundil glares at Maeglin for a moment longer. Then he scowls and storms sternward to reset their course, putting as much distance between himself and Maeglin as possible. Downcast and silent, Maeglin follows Glorfindel down into the cabin to borrow clothes. The two mortal men, left alone, exchange uncertain glances. _

_ “Who is that Elf?” whispers Aron, for this is the young man’s name. _

_ Ben, the old man, shrugs and shakes his head like a draft horse with an itchy ear. _

_ “I don’t know. And I don’t believe I want to. A word of advice, Aron: don’t delve too deeply into the affairs of the Elves, lest you learn what you never wished to know. Every story they can tell you will surely break your heart.” _

_ Within the hour, the company of five has set out for the horizon, bound for the Halls of Waiting. _

_ ø _

In the morning, Idril Celebrindal took the last few steps up to a rocky ledge overlooking the mountain’s edge. Pristine forest stretched on for a mile, and past it, the sparkling bay. You could see a few simple rooftops by the water. This was where they had taken refuge: the exiles of Gondolin and Doriath, the two last great strongholds of the elves.

She was alone. Her mantle was of fur and leather now, and she went barefoot no longer but wore soft deerskin boots. Her face, which had once shone with indomitable joy, even after her mother’s passing, remained beautiful with a muted quality. Her heart was tired; she had seen more than she ever wanted of Arda. With her she carried her old rabbit-bound journal. 

She had discovered this in her pocket a few days after the Fall of Gondolin. Marveling, she had rifled through the pages, filled with her drawings of exquisite flowers and birds, as unfamiliar to her now as the glyphs in some ancient relic: a sad record of rich, teeming gardens, long gone, that she had once loved so much. 

There was a single blank page left at the end, and Idril flipped open to its clean white face. She sat upon the dirt ground, crossed her legs, and sat deep in thought looking out over the forest. Then she began to write. 

She wrote for an hour or more, serenaded by the whistle of wind through the treetops. The occasional seabird glided overhead, calling. At times she wiped her face free of tears with her shoulder, but a few salty drops still fell onto the page, obscuring the elven-script she made in her delicate hand.

When she reached the end, Idril tore the last page out of her book and held it out to the northerly wind as though in offering. When she opened her fingers, the wind snatched it up and bore it, fluttering, into the sky. She stood still and watched it fly away, curling and twisting like a swallow against the sun. Then she turned and walked back down the mountain.

If some traveller had chanced upon the page-- caught on a stone, perhaps, or dancing along the beach-- and had he been able to read Idril’s impeccable Quenya, this is what it said:

Dear Papa,

It has been years since Gondolin fell. I remember like it was yesterday: the fire, the terror, the blood. Of those of us in the city when the Orcs came, fewer than a thousand escaped alive. We spent that night in the mountains, and in the morning surveyed all that was lost.

We lamented for brave Ecthelion, who for love slayed the monster that bested two mighty elven-kings before him. For smiling Glorfindel, whose goodness shone most brightly in the darkest times. Thorondor the Eagle, his friend, bore his body back up to us from the crevasse, but afterward took to the skies again without a word. 

And for you, beloved father: my King, my kindred, my closest friend. I had never known a time without you. Suddenly I was left alone.

You held my small hand and told me stories in the meadows of Aman. You hid your tears to comfort me when we lost Mama to the ice. You scolded me when I was bad and you were right every time. And High King though you were, you never grew prideful or mean. I’m proud of how much of me is made of you, Papa. No one ever warned me about the profound emptiness of a world without the man who put you in it. Another ten ages could pass, but I would never be ready for you to leave my side.

But ready or not, the Gondolindrim turned to me to lead them in exile, and so I did. We followed the rivers southward, and braved a terrible hungry winter. There in the snow, we joined with those fleeing Doriath, which was ruined the same year. We journeyed on, and did not stop until the Mouth of the Sirion, far enough from Morgoth’s gaze to rest, for a time. 

It was a hard journey. The children grew thin. I wished more than ever for your wise guidance, but found only what remained of it in my own heart. In the end, it was enough. We have a few little homes and shops here in the Bay of Balar. We live as a pond where once lay a mighty ocean. But we live on. 

Eärendil is nearly grown. He is almost as tall as you were, and his beauty surpasses any I have ever seen-- it’s not just a mother’s doting, I’m sure of it. As I predicted from the day I birthed him, he loves the open ocean and spends his days on the water with Voronwë whenever he can. He swears one day he will sail to Aman and implore the Valar to vanquish Morgoth-- the task that Voronwë himself set out to do all those years ago. I fear for him, even as I believe with all my heart that he may truly save us all.

Tuor has aged, more slowly than most among the Edain, but the passing years have marked his face. He loves me even more now than he did. When we sail to the Gray Havens, Papa, I will take him with me. Perhaps the Valar will allow him to live forever as one of the Eldar, because of the great deeds he has done for us.

Papa, do you remember Gilwen? My spirit would not have survived if if not for her. We thought she was lost, at first, but Mothwing bore her up over the mountain’s edge after dawn. In the years that followed, she walked ever by my side, speaking reassurance and counsel. I would have fallen a thousand times without her. Some nights we lay crying together, but even more importantly, she made me laugh, even in the direst of times.

She and Tiromer tended to wounds and cared for the few who fell sick, and both are dearly beloved by us all. She delivered the few babies born here in the Bay thus far. Many of her apprentices are masters now, of midwifery and healing alike, and she teaches them still with care and patience. Of course, she wedded Tiromer after our first year here, and the two of them fill one another with joy that grows by the day. They expect their first child in the summer.

There is one thing that Gilwen tries to hide even from me: to the end, Gilwen loved Maeglin, the betrayer of Gondolin, with whom she came to the city. She will never reveal it, after what’s happened, but in my heart there is nothing to forgive of her. In a way, I loved him too.

I have pondered forgiving him, partly for Gilwen’s sake, and to release the last of the hatred and darkness in my own heart. After all, it was Morgoth, and not Maeglin, who sacked the city; and in the end, Maeglin deceived Morgoth to save many. He may not have meant to harm Eärendil that day-- I later found the Elessar hung around his neck by a mithril chain. A small gesture in the grand scheme of things, but it makes me hate him less. Tuor, though, can never forgive, and swears Maeglin was wicked through and through. 

For a long time after I learned of Maeglin’s love for me, I feared and despised my cousin; yet as the years went on, that oddity became almost routine. I am sure if he could choose, he would not feel for me as he did. I despised him again after Gondolin fell. But I am tired now, and want to despise no longer. As you used to say to me: “_ Á Avatyara! _ Forgive! We live until the end of all things. We all shall fail, and do wicked things to one another.” It is Manwë in his hallowed Halls who must judge him in the end, after all. And as I think of all that’s happened, perhaps I need forgiveness of my own.

With each passing day without you, the ways of the world grow thornier and more unfathomable. Papa, when I close my eyes I try to listen for the answers you would give to these questions, for they elude me. I wonder where you are, and if you are with Mama. I wonder if you would be proud of me. I close my eyes and I dream of the day when we are all finally together in Valinor: You and I, and Tuor, and Eärendil and Mama. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I find hope, for I know the day will come. Gilwen, Glorfindel and Ecthelion will be there too, and all those we lost in Gondolin. There will be no more crying, no more blood, no more fighting or hunger. And someday, if Maeglin, too, makes it to that shore, then I may welcome him. 

Until then, I miss you with every part of me, with everything I have. 

_ Melinyë _, I love you, Papa. I love you to the end of all things. Love is all that any of us have left, and so we continue to love, love fearlessly despite the pain, despite everything.

Your Idril.

_ ø _

_ Maeglin spent many nights with Glorfindel and his mariners aboard the small ship as they made the long journey to the Halls of Waiting. Often, Maeglin and Glorfindel stood together looking over the prow, and talked for a long time with each other, their heads bent close together so none but they could hear what words were exchanged. And Curundil’s heart was torn. _

_ They faced rough seas and a few times were waylaid-- but all of that is a tale for another time. In the morning, the great granite columns of the Halls of Mandos appear through the mist. A thousand gray steps ascend to the square doorway in the clouds. As their ship draws closer they see elves upon these steps, elves clad in the clothes they died in, walking silently forward as though entranced. None of them seem to see or hear the others. _

_ They disembark. Glorfindel takes Maeglin’s hand and holds it tightly. The mariners stay behind while the two of them approach the thousand steps, and begin their ascent. _

_ At first, the elves on the steps do not look at them as they pass. But soon they feel hostile eyes snatching glances at them. Faces turn, and the wind carries their whispers: _

_ “...Treachery…” _

_ “...Betrayal…” _

_ “...Kinslayer…” _

_ “...Craven…” _

_ Glorfindel leans to Maeglin and whispers his own words into his ear: “Don’t listen, Maeglin. Don’t worry about the others. None of that matters. Keep your eyes on me.” _

_ Maeglin frowns, wondering where he has heard these words before. He heeds Glorfindel and keeps his gaze steadfastly on the shape of his companion, even as the whispers become mutterings, then cries of outright hatred like embers bursting into flame. _

_ “Traitor! Murderer!” _

_ “Son of Eöl, evil as your father before you!” _

_ “Servant of Morgoth, evil as your master above you!” _

_ They hurl words first, and then stones. The companions walk on through the unrelenting hailstorm, struck from every side. _

_ A heavy, jagged piece of granite flies out of nowhere and strikes Glorfindel’s face. When he looks up, his cheek bears a red cut. _

_ Glorfindel stops and looks for the one who cast the stone. When the elves see Glorfindel hurt, expressions of doubt replace the vindictive shouting. _

_ “That’s Glorfindel of Gondolin; I know him!” _

_ “Why protect him, Glorfindel? Why walk at his side?” _

_ “Maeglin, the coward, allows Glorfindel to suffer the blows meant for him…” _

_ The crowd surrounding them now is too thick to pass through. Glorfindel’s arm is around Maeglin’s shoulder. They look up into a sea of shadowy faces, grimacing in hatred: men and women and even children, some in rags and some in finery. The gates at the top of the steps disappear behind the infinitude of their silhouettes. There is nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide. _

_ Then a fresh scream of hatred takes them all by surprise. _

_ “Answer for my children, traitor!” _

_ Even the clamoring of the crowd dies down before the viciousness of this new voice. _

_ The speaker is a woman, haggard-faced from weeping. She pushes her way out of the crowd and stands directly before Maeglin and seizes a choking grip on the front of his shirt. _

_ “My Ani and Arien. They burned, you traitorous scum, burned alive in the sack as my eldest dragged me from their cries. Where are they now? Tell me, traitor, where?” _

_ With every word of her pitiable demand, her thin fingers wrench at his collar. Maeglin is silent and pale, unable to turn his eyes from her wasted face. He does not flinch as she raises her palm to strike him; he shuts his eyes and accepts the stinging blow across his cheek. _

_ Its sound rings across the now silent steps. The woman sobs and shudders, and raises her stinging hand to hit him again. Again, he makes no attempt to stop her. An angry red wheal in the shape of her hand darkens on Maeglin’s cheek even as she strikes him a third time, and a fourth. She hits him again and again until her strength is gone; yet weakly, weeping, she raises her hand once more. _

_ Finally Glorfindel says quietly: “That’s enough.” _

_ He lowers her arm with his own. _

_ “Forgive me, but it won’t bring them back, Lady. Your children are safe on the shores of Aman. I saw them as I passed through. They are well, and will await you when you leave these Halls. Maeglin will answer for your children, and for all the others he has harmed. It is for judgment before Mandos I now bring him, and his judgment will be fair and just.” _

_ The woman’s sobs die down; her vengeful snarl fades away. At Glorfindel’s words, she seems to forget about Maeglin. _

_ “They’re safe, you say, Lord Glorfindel? My girls are alive and well in Aman?” _

_ Glorfindel crosses his hands over his heart and bows. _

_ The woman gives a small, resigned nod. She retreats. The crowd silently parts and disperses at the close of this curious scene, allowing Maeglin and Glorfindel to pass. _

_ Glorfindel takes Maeglin’s arm, and they resume the climb. No more stones are cast. No more curses or accusations dog their steps. The elves around them pay them no more mind except for a pondering glance or two; they resume their own journeys toward judgment. _

_ The stone hall at the top of the hill grows ever larger as they approach. Unfamiliar, inhuman faces are carved into the edge of the cornice: deep stone eyes look down from over the towering columns at every guilty soul to climb up onto the threshold. Maeglin shrinks before them, shivering. Their unforgiving stares are fitting ornamentation for the Halls of judgment. _

_ A powerful, echoing voice emanates from the mist and shadow. _

_ “Well met, Glorfindel.” _

_ A tall and stark figure appears before them, dressed in dark gray. This is no elf. With alarm, Maeglin recognizes him as a Maia: a mighty being; a servant of the Valar. And this very one must be none other than-- _

_ “Lord Eönwë, herald of Manwë,” Glorfindel greets him in kind. The two exchange smiles like old friends. _

_ Eönwë turns his face toward Maeglin. It is a stern face, like one of the sculptures in the cornice; the eyes glitter with otherworldly might as they stare into Maeglin’s eyes as though reading secret words written therein. _

_ “Maeglin of Nan Elmoth. Once called Lómion. Son of Eöl and Aredhel. Orphaned by Turgon and tormented by Morgoth; righteous warrior of the _ Nirnaeth Arnoediad _ , treacherous bringer of the Fall of Gondolin. But for you, the innocents would have died. Contrarily, but for you, they would never have been in danger.” _

_ Maeglin bows low before the Maia. _

_ It is odd to hear the lay of his whole sad, contradictory life in so few sentences. Is that really all that happened; all that there is to know of Maeglin of Nan Elmoth? And if not, what is missing from the story? What lies in the spaces between those paltry few words? _

_ He realizes: love, of course. He loved his mother, and she loved him, and she died. That began it all. He loved Idril, and that was all the rest. And how would things have changed if Glorfindel had not loved him? If Gilwen had not? _

_ Yes; this is who he was. This is who they all were. Happy or sad, short or long, every story ever told is a story about love. _

_ “Indeed. It is I, Lord Eönwë. I am Maeglin, and no one else.” _

_ Eönwë nods once in satisfaction at this answer. _

_ “Very well; and so you are. Rise, then, Son of Twilight. My master, Lord Manwë, awaits.” _

_ The Maia turns. His dark gray robes billow behind him. _

_ “It is good to see you again, Glorfindel, and I thank you for bringing him. Come, Maeglin. Follow me.” _

_ Eönwë starts back toward the tall, shadowy doorway. _

_ “Wait!” _

_ Both Maeglin and Eönwë turn sharply at the sound of this clear, earnest cry, ringing out brightly through the fog. _

_ “Yes, Glorfindel?” Eönwë kindly replies. _

_ Glorfindel’s blue eyes shine up at him, suddenly wet with tears. For the first time since stepping off of the small ship, his dignified, almost distant composure has left him. _

_ “What--” He swallows, searching for words. “What’s going to happen to him, Lord Eönwë? How will Maeglin be judged? I’m sorry; I must know. Will he be hurt? Will he be pardoned? Will I ever see him again? Tell me, herald of Manwë, if you can-- please!” _

_ To Maeglin’s surprise, a forlorn smile softens the edges of Eönwë’s hard mouth. _

_ “I don’t know, Glorfindel,” he answers simply, “I wish I had the answers. I’ve led every Child of Ilúvatar through these gates. Every single one. And I remember them all: the woman who in wartime murdered and robbed her neighbor to steal food for her starving child. The detestable philanderer and wife-beater who saved dozens from his burning village at great risk to his own life. Truthfully, I do not know how Lord Manwë passes judgment. Yet I’m glad it’s Manwë’s task, and not my own, for I would not understand how to begin. The only promise I can make you is the same you made to the woman you met on the steps below: the judgment, whatever it may be, will be fair, and will be just.” _

_ Glorfindel opens his mouth fearfully to say something to Maeglin, but closes it again, unwilling to speak before stern Eönwë, and all those watching. _

_ “Say what you must, Glorfindel,” the Maia gently prompts him. _

_ And softly, but unfalteringly, Glorfindel obeys him: “Maeglin, I love you. Whatever happens, wherever you go, and for however long, I love you.” _

_ He holds out his arms, and Maeglin comes into them. He, too, cries freely now, without a care for who might see. _

_ “And I love you, Glorfindel of Gondolin,” he replies without a trace of hesitation, “I wish more than anything I’d listened to you; I wish I had never left. I’m sorry, friend. If only I could do it all again-- if only I could be captured by Morgoth once more; just so this time, I might do the right thing before it’s too late.” _

_ And it seemed an echo arose at the Gate of Mandos at Maeglin’s words, the plea of every being to walk through them: _If only!

_ Just as he did so many years before at the foot of their waterfall, Glorfindel cradles Maeglin in his arms, waiting for the tirade to cease, stopping the tracks of his tears with his lips. _

_ “I’m sorry, too,” he says, “I wish I could return to the day you were taken and save you. I wish more than anything that things were different. If it’s worth anything, I forgive you.” _

_ Maeglin wipes his face resolutely and steps back. With difficulty, the two friends part-- their arms seem unwilling to let each other go. _

_ Eönwe patiently waits up ahead as Maeglin finds his parting words to his dearest friend, the last words he will say to one of his own kind for a long time. _

_ “Farewell for now, my dear Glorfindel. You will do great things for our world that I wish I could see. Remember me, if you will, if it doesn’t bring you too much pain. If I never come back, tell my mother I love her. And Gilly, too, if you see her again. Farewell!” _

_ Glorfindel can’t bring himself to say the word back, but raises his hand in a gesture of parting. Maeglin turns and follows the herald of Manwë into the looming doorway. His shoulders are square, and his jaw is set. He is somehow comforted to know there exists a power beyond himself: one that he trusts to do right by the world, and by the ones he loves. _

_ Glorfindel watches Maeglin walk into the Halls of Mandos to face his final judgment._

The End


End file.
